Too Deep For Tears
by Bekah1218
Summary: Molly is awake and aware, and she and Sherlock must begin to reveal and share their past experiences. AU-canon Divergence post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Friends to Lovers, Mention of Childhood Trauma, PTSD, Enhanced Interrogation Techniques, Loss of Child. NOTE: This follows immediately after the events of Fearfully And Wonderfully Made.
1. Chapter 1

(at the Holmes family's country house, about three weeks after Sherlock played his composition to the group)

When Mycroft Holmes took the phone call from John Watson, he did not expect to hear the news that Molly Hooper was awake and talking. He was pleasantly surprised, and could not stop a slight smile from escaping his usually tight control. So, his little brother's scheme had worked! He knew the next few weeks and months would not be easy for either of them, but at least they could begin in earnest to heal and get on with their lives.

He knew that John and Mary had been working with Dr. Taylor and Ella to plan approaching Sherlock and Molly as a unit. Since they were involved (Mycroft's term - even that made him shudder slightly – sentiment! He wasn't sure about that any more, but kept up a front for his little brother's amusement), everyone on the therapy team agreed it would be better for them to both be present for all the sessions. They'd eventually have shared the information anyway, and this approach could address both their separate and shared experiences. He felt as the others did - relieved that things were finally starting to happen, and apprehensive that the sessions might bring out more negativity at first. Molly and Sherlock both would need very careful observation to keep them safe.

Mycroft hoped Molly would prove to be undamaged mentally and ready to begin therapy with Sherlock. Since Sherlock had played for the group, he had been spending more and more time with Molly, reading to her and closely studying what she was able to do with prompting. She had walked around first her room, and then the whole of the first floor with Sherlock, seeming to notice when an obstacle was in her path, and to avoid it. He read different types of things to her and noted her response, however slight, to each. He had been planning to try bringing her downstairs soon - but it seemed that Molly had indeed broken through her catatonia to interact with his brother.

The little group gathered in Molly's room was still apprehensive. Molly was cheerful, glad to see Sherlock was returned - but had thus far shown no sign that she remembered anything else. John, Mary, and Sherlock decided by looks and gestures, to have Molly go downstairs and share the evening meal, and if she still had not broached the subject of the time she had lost, they would begin to reveal the past.

Sherlock held out his arm and Molly took it. Although they had walked together many times in recent weeks, this was the first that she was really aware of it. Sherlock felt a shiver run through him - anticipation, and if he were honest, fear about what the next few hours in particular were about to reveal. They descended to the ground floor, followed by John and Mary. They went into the drawing-room and waited for dinner to be served. No one addressed the elephant in the room.

Dinner was a time of small talk made with hesitation on the part of everyone but Molly. Each person was aware of the precipice where Molly was perched. She was in good spirits as far as anyone else could tell, and finished her meal. She then rose when Sherlock stood, and took his arm as they walked back to the drawing-room, where they sat on a settee together, Molly's hand tucked into Sherlock's larger one. The others all followed them in and sat around the room.

John began. "Molly - erm, yeah - what do you remember just before you went to sleep?"

"I, uh, I was at my flat, sitting on the sofa, watching telly - I love Glee - when suddenly three large men came bursting into the room. I - oh, god," she said. "Sherlock was still gone, and I - I couldn't get away from them. I remember one of them was familiar - he was one of the agents on my security team! He was holding a cloth with chloroform on it to my face, I recognised the odour - and later I woke up in a room with a bed and I was chained to the bed by my ankle. They said - they said that Sherlock was being held somewhere. Oh, Sherlock! What did they do? How did you escape?" Molly asked, her face looking at Sherlock, worried, like she would cry at any moment.

"I was in Serbia when I was captured. It was the third time I had been taken prisoner, but the only time I was not able to escape within a short time. They held me there for some weeks, until Mycroft found me and was able to infiltrate them and rescue me," Sherlock said, his shaking voice betraying his attempt at making light of things and slight scorn at the notion that _he_ had to be rescued at all.

" Nearly all of that time is very blurry as far as my memories of it go. I must have told them about you - I'm so, so sorry, Molly - can you ever forgive me?"

" Oh, Sherlock, of course, I forgive you! How can I hold you responsible for saying anything when you were being treated so badly? Did you have any serious injuries? I just can't remember..." she faded away on a whimper, looking over Sherlock with the eyes of a trained physician as well as a lover, scanning for any sign of damage anywhere.

Mycroft replied, "When we found Sherlock's location, by means of tracking devices under his skin in three locations on his body, he had been denied nutrition for many days, perhaps weeks. He was given just enough fluid to keep him alive and able to speak. He had several fractures, notably his skull, the right femur, fibula and tibia, and the left humerus, but also several ribs. There were internal injuries, severe bruising to a few organs, and his hands were injured from - other things; but fortunately they healed with splints to his fingers, antibiotics and rest, aided by medication for the pain, which was considerable. It was necessary to do surgery for the fractures. My brother has since undergone physiotherapy for his injuries, and has luckily regained the full use of his hands, as we all saw a few weeks ago, and nearly full use of his body; though he has pain that may well be chronic from now on. He also was treated for the drug dependence, which had reasserted itself when they gave him intravenous narcotics to make him pliable and easier to persuade. "

Mary and John watched Molly carefully, looking for any sign of severe reaction to the news, but finding only concern. She sat there, digesting the things she had just been told, and then looked sadly at Sherlock.

"Sherlock - I was pregnant, wasn't I? When I was taken - what happened to the baby? Oh, no!" she dissolved into tears, clutching her abdomen. Sherlock sat there, holding her hand and looking scared to death before he answered her softly.

"Molly, the people who took you kept you hostage for some time. When they thought Mycroft might be closing in, they gave you drugs to force you into early labour. You - you..." he couldn't continue, tears starting to show in his eyes.

Mary picked up the conversation at the point where Sherlock had left off. "Molly, you delivered the baby, but it was too early. There was no medical support on hand, and I'm afraid that the baby did not survive. You were found very shortly thereafter, and were treated for a systemic infection and also had a D&C performed to stop heavy bleeding which was not immediately addressed by the people who were there with you. You needed a transfusion to replace the blood lost. You also had a pneumonia which was very responsive to the antibiotics, thank goodness. Within a few days, you fell into a catatonic state, and have remained there until today. That was seven months ago."

NOTE- the title is taken from Intimations of Immortality by William Wordsworth-

Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

This work was unbeta'd- all mistakes are mine alone- I obviously own nothing.  
~joan


	2. Chapter 2

"Seven _months?"_ Molly wrung her hands in despair. "How could I have been - seven _months_? I don't understand. Have I been here for that long?"

"Dr. Hooper, you were cared for in a private facility in London until your physical health was stable. Then you were brought here, with full-time carers, to continue your convalescence. You have also been under the care of a psychiatrist, who has supervised your 'stabilising' medications, an anti-depressant and an anxiolytic. Your things have been moved out of your flat and are in storage - except for your cat, he has been staying with Anthea." Mycroft replied. "My brother thought it was best to care for you here where it is quieter and he could visit with you; for short periods at first, then weekends, and now, with his physical status much improved, for an extended stay to be with you."

Molly sat there on the settee, sobbing. Sherlock held her hand, but seemed a bit shy about comforting her in front of an audience, no matter how familiar. Finally, he draped an awkward arm around her shoulders, and she leant into his body, turning her head into his shoulder and nuzzling there for comfort. Sherlock put his head on top of hers and just held on more tightly, at last forgetful of the observers.

Mycroft signalled for the tea tray to be brought - for a few minutes, Molly was able to focus on fixing her tea and took comfort in the familiar ritual of a hot drink and assorted dainties. That helped her to get herself collected again. She then turned to Mycroft.

"Mycroft, I can understand why they held Sherlock - I assume it was one of Moriarty's underlings carrying out orders they were given before he killed himself. Was it just one of Moriarty's last orders to make Sherlock as miserable as possible? Sherlock doesn't work for MI6 - so why did they want him? What did they think they would find out?" Molly asked, her eyes tearing up just thinking about the captivity and rough treatment that Sherlock had endured.

"We believe that they thought he had more information about the government's agents and missions than he actually does, and therefore he was important to them. Additionally, he is my brother, and they hoped to extract information about me which could be used in various ways to further their agenda. I am pleased to be able to report that the last two of Moriarty's men were captured when we rescued Sherlock. They are in a secure facility and have provided much information about other criminal groups around the world," Mycroft replied.

"But - why did it take you so long to find him? How could he be held for weeks and weeks? I thought you said he had a tracking device implanted -" Molly persisted, feeling very protective of Sherlock, even if the events were in the past.

"Yes - well, they were keeping him underground in a sort of bunker, which had lots of electronic equipment, some of which interfered with the signal. That will not happen again, as we have since modified the devices. We never stopped searching for him, even though some thought it was a lost cause. When we did locate Sherlock, I and several of my agents infiltrated the group stationed there, and got to him as quickly as we could. Unfortunately, that took several more days. It might have taken even longer, but Moriarty's associates were tiring of their 'toy' and were only too glad to hand off his – err - interrogation - to us. I let Sherlock know that I was there as soon as possible, but it took a few more days for the right opportunity to present itself so that we could get him out quickly and not leave any agents behind - _and_ to capture and relocate the remaining members of Moriarty's crew," Mycroft replied, the words coming out in a rush. "However, once we had arrived, we at least saw to it that Sherlock was given some nutrition and liquids, and the 'beatings' that were administered by us were in name only."

"It's still so hard to understand this, it just doesn't feel quite real yet. I'm sorry, I know that you are telling me the truth, but I have felt like I was dreaming for so long," Molly said softly. She turned to Sherlock with a small smile. "I am so happy that you are home, Sherlock, I missed you so much! I felt so alone, with our baby growing, and having appointments and the early ultrasound without you there. I knew that I couldn't even send you the scan picture because it might be found on your phone. But at least, I knew that you were pleased about the baby, even though it wasn't planned. I was so afraid to send you that message to call me."

"Molly, don't ever be afraid to contact me - I may not be able to answer immediately, but I want you to know I always want to hear from you. I admit that I was surprised, but ultimately happy, about our child, and often thought about you two when I was away. It - broke me to hear about you being taken and what happened. I think of that more than about the way I was treated. I am very glad to be back home, too. I am also very thankful that you are awake and present with me again." Sherlock answered her, looking straight into her eyes, so she knew he was sincere.

"Sherlock and Molly - would you like to start at any certain point in talking further about things, or do you want to just continue to say whatever is on your minds right now? We can do that if you are more comfortable that way, and perhaps get a little more 'organised' later," Mary asked the couple on the settee, who were still holding each other tightly. They both looked wrecked, but at least they were both fully present and able to interact.

They stood up together, and Sherlock said, "I think that we would like to talk about that for a few minutes. We'll go into the kitchen and talk there." He and Molly walked into the other room. When they got there, they stood holding each other tightly, looking at each other, tears steaming down their faces. Then Sherlock pulled out a chair for Molly, walked to the refrigerator to get some water for them both, and then sat down facing her.

"Molly - how do you want to do this? Would it make more sense to start with my being captured that last time, and go through that thoroughly? What do you think?" he asked, taking a sip of water.

"I don't really know that I have any preference, so we may as well go in a sort of chronological order, I suppose. It might make it easier to remember everything that way. Is that all right with you, Sherlock?" Molly replied, taking his hand and working her fingers in between his larger ones.

"That sounds right to me, as well. So, we'll start at the beginning, shall we? I know this won't be easy, but as you and John have taught me, there is no growth without some pain, and certainly no way out of this constant feeling of fear and anger, and - I don't know what else." Sherlock answered.

"I'll go back and tell them we can start in the morning."

A/N Please read and review. This work was not beta-ed; all mistakes are mine alone.

~joan


	3. Chapter 3

A/N Not beta'd, and if I owned anything, I'd be in Spain... enjoy, please read and review:

Sherlock walked back into the drawing-room. John and Mary were sat on one of the settees together, and looked up expectantly as he came in. Mycroft was ensconced in one of the overstuffed armchairs as per his usual. Anthea had joined them and was sat in the armchair across from Mycroft. Everyone was looking at Sherlock, waiting to hear his and Molly's decision.

"Molly and I have talked, and we've decided to more or less go in chronological order with things, then we can both understand more about what happened to the other as well as recalling our own experiences - is that acceptable?" Sherlock asked the group.

"Of course, it is - and it is a very good way to pursue this," John answered for them all. He glanced around the room and all present nodded. "All right, then, shall we start in the morning after breakfast?"

"I would suggest it be a little later, as I want to start taking Molly for a short walk outside in the garden right after breakfast each morning," Sherlock stated. The group all agreed again by nodding and smiling, and he said, "Then we'll see you in the morning. I'll need to help Molly with the stairs, and then we both have medication to take and get settled for sleep." He turned and went back to the kitchen to collect Molly.

"Do you think it is wise for them to share a room already?" asked Mycroft of the room in general.

"Oh, I think it is out of our hands, Mycroft. They haven't had the comfort of each other for far too long - and I doubt seriously they will do anything other than snuggle, if you are worried," answered Mary with a smile. "Now might not be the best time to resume micro-managing your little brother."

"Yes, well, I suppose you are correct – I don't wish to intrude, I am just so concerned about them both. It's just – difficult to let go; I'm sorry." Mycroft replied. Anthea looked over at him and smiled, a tender look that made John and Mary wonder at the relationship she shared with her superior.

Sherlock took Molly to her room and then went briefly to his, to get changed, clean his teeth, wash his face, and take his medications. He then returned to help Molly with changing her clothing, and sat on the bed while she was in the loo, with a reminder to call him if she needed anything at all. Molly went through a similar chain of actions, taking the medications that were laid out by her nurse. She sat down next to Sherlock and looked up at him.

"Do you think we will get through this all right? I have hopes that this will make everything easier to understand and perhaps, eventually, put it behind us, don't you?" Molly asked, watching Sherlock's face carefully.

"Yes, I do think it is the right - and really, only, thing that can help us both to assimilate what happened to us and, as you say, allow us to move on with our lives. I'm afraid things will get worse for a while, before they get better, though. Well, I suppose that I should let you get to sleep..." Sherlock said, not wishing to put any pressure upon her to ask him to stay.

"What? Oh, no, Sherlock, you are not going anywhere - now that I have you back, I want you to stay here and hold me – please?" she pleaded, wanting nothing more than to feel his arms around her as they tried to sleep.

"Well, Molly, far be it from me to refuse your wishes," Sherlock replied, with a small smile. He turned back the covers and Molly slipped into bed, scooting over to leave him room to join her. They both turned onto their sides, Sherlock putting his arm around Molly's waist, and they soon drifted off to sleep, despite Sherlock's racing mind.

Molly woke to the once-familiar feeling that an octopus had grappled with her in her sleep - and won. Sherlock was all limbs, and seemed to stretch out and completely cover the bed, all the while almost face-down and drooling slightly. Molly couldn't hold back a giggle at the sight, one that she had dreamt of for so long. She sobered at the thought of all that they had to work through, but decided that she could do anything if Sherlock was beside her, and that definitely included at night. Since he was still sleeping, and it was early - only half six - she snuggled further into Sherlock and fell asleep again. She felt much safer just being there with him.

The next time she awoke, she was looking into those pale, quicksilver eyes, which were watching her carefully. Sherlock looked like he was memorising her face again. She supposed after she had been drifting for so long, that he was very happy to see her awake, and returned his smile with one of her own. He looked delightfully dishevelled, the dark curls falling over his forehead, as he yawned and stretched. He hugged her to him and rumbled, "Good morning," which for Sherlock was a major speech, before he'd had his coffee. Just the sound of his voice brought back pleasant memories for Molly, and she smiled a bit wider. She shifted a bit, trying unsuccessfully to get out of bed.

"Hey, you, come on, let me go so I can get up to the loo!" Molly said. "We don't want me to wet this lovely bed, do we?"

"Oh, if you must, I guess there's nothing to stop you," Sherlock answered, letting go of her. She got out of bed and walked quite quickly into the loo - Sherlock couldn't help smiling at the sight of Molly so like herself again - god, he had missed this! He glanced at the clock, then went back into the bedroom he had been using and took a quick shower and shaved. He spent a few minutes fussing with his hair, not realising he was already being more careful about his appearance, now that Molly was awake. He took his medications, pulled on jeans and a silver-grey jumper over a deep navy button up, and his well-worn but comfortable trainers, and went back into Molly's room to see if she needed his help with anything.

To his surprise, Molly had also showered. Her nurse had been in briefly to put out her meds, and had helped her to lay out what she wanted to wear. Molly was getting dressed by herself, although a bit more slowly than her usual, in a soft lavender jumper, jeans and ballerina flats. She had brushed out her hair until it shone, and was soon braiding it into a plait at the right side of her head. She looked up and saw him in the mirror and smiled. She finished her braid, tied a lavender bow around the end, and turned around, lifting her arms up to embrace Sherlock, who moved in to stand in front of her. He lowered his head, and they kissed for what seemed like ages. They separated when they heard Mary's voice coming down the corridor.

"All right, no more snogging, you two - let's get downstairs, breakfast will be waiting, and I know you don't want cold coffee, Sherlock. Did you two sleep well?" Mary asked, laughing as she went on down the steps.

"Erm, yes, we did - very well, and I at least had no dreams whatsoever, let alone unpleasant ones," Sherlock answered. "How did you rest, Molly?"

"I slept well, too - I think it was the excitement of being 'back' as much as anything, and sheer energy expenditure after so long. Of course, there _was_ the addition of a very handsome man who held me all night long - that helped a lot." she replied, feeling much better than the day before, and ready to begin facing the unknown. She knew that there were harder times ahead before they were through, but together, they could make it there.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N This chapter has descriptions of enhanced interrogation techniques. Please be aware.

Sherlock and Molly walked down the stairs, Sherlock still offering a steadying hand to Molly. They went into the breakfast room, which was pleasantly sunny without any direct sun to offend sensitive eyes. As usual, there was a variety of food and drink available, so they each selected a few things and sat down with Mycroft, John, and Mary. Sherlock did not eat before he had downed two cups of strong coffee as per usual. He did eat a little something then, sensing the need to fortify himself for the session ahead. Molly did much the same.

After they had finished breakfast, Sherlock and Molly put on light jackets and went out through the kitchen door. It opened onto a delightful garden, with benches placed at good vantage points to watch the birds at several kinds of feeders, and a small fountain the birds loved to bathe in. Most of the summer flowers were fading, but there were alstroemeria, moluccella, and chrysanthemums in autumn colours aplenty. Molly especially loved the autumn shades. She and Sherlock walked in the garden and then finished with a walk around the house, entering it again by the front door. It was not a long walk, but far more than Molly had been used to doing for a long while. She held onto Sherlock's arm or hand, and felt so glad to be back to reality, as she thought of the experience. Sherlock looked like he would have loved a cigarette, his nerves were showing - but he refrained, noticing her glance and shoving up his sleeve to show the nicotine patch there. Only one, Molly noted. As they entered the house again, she gave him a quick squeeze round his waist. Sherlock took their jackets and hung them in the closet off the entrance, and they turned into the drawing-room, where they would be holding the therapy sessions.

A tea tray was set out for the group. After the walk, Molly did feel a bit thirsty - or perhaps it was just more nerves - at any rate, she nodded when Sherlock asked if she wanted tea, knowing he would prepare it just the way she liked it. She took the cup he offered her, and placed it on a coaster on the low table in front of the settee where she and Sherlock liked to sit. He also fixed a cup of tea and took one of 'his' chocolate biscuits and ate it with his tea. Molly was pleased to see that he had not lost his sweet tooth. He then sat back in the sofa and started drumming the fingers of the hand that rested on the armrest, his feet shifting about restlessly. Molly knew he was getting fidgety and hoped he could settle down. She threaded her fingers through his much longer ones, and gave his hand what she hoped was a reassuring squeeze.

Mycroft and Anthea entered next. Though they might not be at all of the sessions, Mycroft thought that they could provide more support and perhaps additional background for the initial one, which would probably be mostly Sherlock's story. They each took a cup of tea and settled onto another settee.

Mary and John soon came into the room as well. They each made a cup of tea, Mary's decaf, and settled into their chairs. They looked at each other, and then John said, "Erm - before we get started, there is something that Mary and I would like to tell you. There doesn't seem to be any better time, so we thought we'd go ahead. We have recently found out that we are expecting our first child. Mary is about 12 weeks along now, so we thought we should let our friends know."

"Oh, Mary, John, that is wonderful news - I'm sure we are both happy for you!" Molly said, genuine happiness on her face. Sherlock gave one of his small smiles, but it was a real one. He gripped Molly's hand a little tighter. Molly thought he looked like he was going to bolt any time. She patted his hand and scooted closer to him in support.

"All right, then - Sherlock, do you want to tell us how you came to be captured in Serbia? Just try and start right before it happened and carry on with whatever you remember, and in the order that things occurred, as much as you can, okay?" said Mary, looking at them warmly, her body language open and receptive.

Sherlock took a deep breath and began, the speed of delivery gradually increasing, not really looking at any one face as he told his story. "I was in the area near Zrenjanin, in the north-east of the country. I had – erm - convinced the previous members of the web I dealt with, to tell me of this outpost - the last part of the puzzle. I was making my way through the forest when I heard dogs barking, then baying - so I knew they had tracking hounds of some sort after me. I tried wading in the river Tisa to put them off my trail, but they picked it up again almost immediately I stepped out of the water. I started running, but it was only a few minutes until I was surrounded by men with rifles and dogs, and soon a helicopter overhead. I thought it was better to be captured than shot, so I surrendered. I was forced to my knees and handcuffed. A man with a rifle walked directly in front and another behind me until I was shoved into a truck."

"So, you were captured - by whom? Moriarty's people? Where did they take you after that?" asked John.

" I was taken to the underground bunker where I was held until Mycroft came for me. I was searched and thrown into a cell that had only a dirty blanket and a bucket. After a short time, I was hauled out and questioned by a man who seemed to be in charge, Baron Maupertius. When I refused to answer, another two men grabbed me and took me out of the Baron's office and into the room they used for _interrogation_ , to put it kindly," Sherlock responded.

"All this was at the Baron's directions? Was he one of Moriarty's lieutenants, so to speak? Did they question you for a long time?" wondered Mary.

Sherlock took a deep breath and continued. "Yes, I believe he was; my best informant had given me that information on the Baron. The two men who took me into the other room chained my wrists to opposite walls. I could only stand, there was no room to sit or lie down. They resumed the questioning. This time, when I didn't answer, they started beating me, first with fists and then with other things, pipes and pieces of lumber being two of their favourites. Sometimes the beatings were administered by someone with a cat o' nine tails, which had bits of metal embedded into each of the tails - or at least, it felt like it. I lost track of how long the sessions lasted - they seemed endless. If I was lucky, I was taken down from the chains and placed in my cell for a while, which gave me a chance to relax my arms and legs. If not, they left the room and let me hang there, not quite able to relax any part of my body well enough to rest. I slept only when I was so exhausted that I had no choice in the matter. I was seldom given a chance to bathe - or to use what primitive facilities there were - so - I - was forced to - stay in my own waste, sometimes for days." He paused, and drew a longer breath. Molly squeezed his hand for reassurance.

"That must have been awful to endure - did they give you any food or drink at all?" queried John - he had suffered injury in Afghanistan, but not torture., and he ached for his friend, who was quite obviously still reliving the experience.

"Someone must have done their research - I was given narcotics intravenously. Heroin, judging by the effects, and occasionally cocaine when they wanted me more alert. God help me, I was thankful when they gave it to me, because it dulled my awareness of the more unsavoury things, and stopped the pain for a while. The drugs dried out my throat horribly, though, and made it even harder to speak. There was no food, only the barest amount of water to keep me alive and able to speak. The beatings were always very thorough, and covered every part of my body and head. They - erm - removed my fingernails - I couldn't use my hands for much of anything for weeks, and despaired of ever holding my violin again, let alone playing it. My vision was blurry for some weeks, I believe," Sherlock paused again for breath, finally daring to glance at Molly, who sat with a look of horror on her face.

"Oh, Sherlock, love, I had no idea it was that bad for you - I had imagined them questioning you and not letting you rest, but not full-on torture!" she said, grabbing his hands tighter and not letting go as he continued speaking.

"But worst of all was the water-boarding. First, they strapped me to a board that put my feet higher than my head; my arms and legs were completely restrained. They covered my head with a sort of burlap sack or towelling, and would pour water on my face until I could no longer breathe. I felt like I was drowning. They'd keep up with the water until I thought I would finally succumb this time, and then unexpectedly, let up. I am a decent swimmer and can hold my breath under normal circumstances, but this was just horrible. Your body is convinced it is suffocating and you try to get away but can't. The weaker you are, the worse it feels. That is what many of my nightmares of that time are about."

"Did they let you rest after that, at least? It sounds impossible for you to go on much longer after that treatment," said John, watching Sherlock's face closely.

" Yes, they did, but only because I passed out finally. That was the worst of the physical torture. They also used psychological means, threatening anyone and everyone that is important to me with bodily harm or death, if I did not answer. I was also subjected to loud noises that never seemed to stop, and bright strobe lights that blinked incessantly. I'm sure that I needn't tell you how that affected me. After a while I am sure that I told them anything and everything - I just could not resist any more. I really do not know exactly what I told them, I just answered, hoping it would end the pain. It never did, until they were too tired or bored to continue. I was treated to a terrible cycle of interrogation sessions with torture, and being drugged out of my mind when Mycroft finally got a location on me and he and several of his team infiltrated the Baron's men and got me out several days later. I will be eternally grateful that he went against his advisers' suggestions and would not give up on finding me."

Sherlock finished, looking exhausted and horrified anew at just describing what he went through to the others, shuddering and then shifting nervously in his seat, and starting to stim with both hands and feet. Molly held him tightly - Mycroft noticed that his brother did not shy away from her touch and was grateful that Sherlock had found someone he trusted so much. He knew it was not easy for Sherlock to trust anyone. The other members of the group looked around the room at each other silently.

John was the first to speak. "Sherlock, thank you for telling us. It must have been horrible to go through all that. I know, from my own experience of combat and injury, that getting it out will definitely help you. It is never easy, but telling those who will not judge and will give you unfailing support, does make a difference. I think that you did really well. Is there anything else you want to say right now?"

Sherlock sat, head down and still stimming away, and looked up through his lashes at the others, and said softly, "No, I don't think so. May I go and lie down for a little while? I'm getting a headache." He stood and went up the stairs, Molly following on his heels.

A/N Please read and review- thank you for reading. Again, I own nothing, this work was not beta'd.

~joan


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock and Molly went upstairs and into their rooms. A moment later John stood in the doorway, looking worried. Sherlock was in his room, in the process of changing his clothes for pyjama bottoms and a soft tee shirt. He looked very worn out and his expression was one of pain as he entered the room where they both slept. Molly had just finished drawing the drapes of their shared bedroom to make it darker and took the fresh flowers out of the bedroom into the corridor, hoping that the fragrance would not trigger Sherlock's osmophobia.

"Sherlock, do you need me to get you something for your head? If it is a migraine starting, it would be best to try and get ahead of it. I can't give you sumatriptan for it because of your antidepressant, but you can take something else by mouth...perhaps an extra dose of your anxiety medicine and some ibuprofen - ?" John asked.

"Yes, I guess that ibuprofen and the anti-anxiety medicine would be good... I am feeling rather - frazzled - following that session," Sherlock replied. "I also feel like I am going to be sick, and just walking up the stairs felt very odd. I haven't yet had any aura - oh, god, I spoke too soon, there it is now," he trailed off - the jagged edges of the aura were like lightning bolts at the strangest places in his visual field - and quickly went into the loo and proceeded to eject his tea and biscuits. He returned holding the sides of his head and grimacing at the suddenly too-loud sounds in the room. His hands and feet had stopped their random movements when his headache began in earnest. He lay down gingerly, still holding onto his head.

John went back downstairs and got the medications, although he substituted paracetamol for the ibuprofen, since Sherlock was nauseated. He added a shot of compazine for the nausea. Perhaps later, if the initial medicines didn't work too well, he could try something else. He also got an ice pack and brought it all up to Sherlock, who was now lying in bed on his back, looking very pale. Molly was holding a cool flannel to his forehead.

John gave Sherlock the injection, helped him to take the medicine, and also told him to try the ice pack on the side where it hurt - this had helped him sometimes when they were sharing 221B. Then he said he would check back in an hour, and left the room. Sherlock turned onto his right side and Molly tucked him up, making sure that his blanket was covering him. She knew that anything that was soothing would help him regain his equilibrium. Molly remained in the room, but sat in the armchair beside the bed to be nearby, not wanting to jostle and bother him if he found a comfortable position. Blessedly, Sherlock's breathing soon evened out and he fell asleep within a few minutes.

Molly thought about the information that Sherlock had revealed earlier. By agreement, they had not started down the road of sharing much of their memories before the sessions began. She was glad they had agreed that - it was hard enough to hear it in a small group, knowing that John and Mary, and Mycroft and Anthea - were there to help; she didn't know if she would have been able to be of any help at all, while she was busy crying at the thought of Sherlock going through all of what he had described. She was fairly certain that he had tried to minimise the whole experience, mostly for her benefit, and wondered how much worse the experience really was for him. She wasn't certain she really wanted to know the worst of it, but if Sherlock needed to get it off his chest, she would find the strength to listen and to support him. He had to know he had someone who would support and stay with him, no matter what he had to reveal.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was dreaming fitfully. He was back in Serbia, in the torture room, chained by both wrists. His nemesis this time was the misnamed Dragomir - and a more unlikely man to be named for "precious peace" there surely never was. He held a stout piece of wood, rather like a cricket bat in size and shape. He proceeded in the dream to hit Sherlock again and again in the sides and abdomen, until he was bleeding freely from the mouth and from several places in his side, and he knew that some ribs were either broken or cracked. Sherlock could taste the blood and feel the blows; he began trying to twist away and cried out in pain. Then the man picked up the cat o'nine tails - with its sharp metal embellishments on each of the ends. Dragomir was a master at this, and lashed Sherlock across the shoulders and then lower, each stroke tearing open his flesh and ripping it. Soon the blood was also flowing freely from these wounds. Then he moved the handle slightly, so the lashes struck lower still...

Just when he thought he would pass out from all of this, he felt Molly shaking him gently and calling his name. He shook his head and sat up, perhaps a bit too quickly, his head starting to spin.

Sherlock felt very disorientated and confused, the pain crashing through his head. He could not understand how Molly was here with him. Then he remembered at last - he was here at the country house and safe, and Molly was also here, safe - and awake. He took a few deep breaths and sipped the water that she gave him. His hands were trembling badly. Even the darkened room hurt his eyes and head.

Molly sat on the edge of the bed and put her arms around Sherlock. She knew he was still not completely sure of his surroundings, but he was getting there. She held him and softly talked to him, seeing him settle down more, the tremors getting less severe as the minutes passed. Sherlock gave her a hug, and said, "Well - glad that's over - I really don't like going back there, even in my dreams. It was awful."

"No wonder - it must have been horrid for you! Please, Sherlock, if you ever dream of any of this and I am asleep - wake me up and we can talk, or - just sit here. I won't mind, okay? Promise me you will..." Molly said softly. "I know we have lots of things to talk through here, but if we are together, we can do it, I am sure. Don't try and shield me so much, love – you need to let all this out and it will not hold such power over you. I can weather it with you."

"I'm still not sure that I am worth all this caring lark, especially since it was my fault that you were taken and -" Sherlock began in a cynical tone, but was stopped by Molly, who looked at him with an expression that brooked no opposition. She took hold of his face and gently turned it toward her.

"Now listen to me, William Sherlock Scott Holmes! No more talk like that, do you hear me? You are worth it, to me and to all of your family and friends here and in London. You will NOT talk about yourself like you are worthless any more - I love you, you great git! And I don't love just anyone. You mean the world to your friends and family, and you ARE my world. Do you hear me?" Molly finished and stared right at him, waiting for him to argue with her.

Sherlock sat there for a moment, then raised an eyebrow at her, trying for lightness, but wincing as he did so. "As the Bard said, 'Though she be but little, she is fierce.' I daren't dream of refusing to listen. Between you and Mummy, much less the others, I have to concede the point." he said, with a small upturn to his lips. Molly wasn't quite sure it qualified as a smile, but she would take it for now. She held him snugly for a few more minutes, then let him up to go into the toilet. He walked unsteadily but waved off her offer of a hand.


	6. Chapter 6

Molly watched as Sherlock made his way to the en-suite, wobbling slightly. She knew he was always unsteady during a migraine, and sometimes for a while after. He said it was like a hangover; and took some time to completely dissipate. She shuddered as she thought how he must have managed when he was away. Thankfully, he didn't vomit this time, and returned to bed after a few minutes. He sat down, looking like someone had punched him. He looked at the bedside clock and sighed heavily. She was able to get a half glass of room-temperature water down him.

"It's been two hours, I guess we'd better get downstairs again. I thought John was coming back," he said with a question in his voice.

"He did come back - you were sound asleep. That was before you started dreaming; you were resting peacefully at the time and he just nodded and went back downstairs," Molly replied.

"Oh. That explains it then - it's not like him to leave things unchecked," Sherlock said quietly, not wanting to hear the sound of his own voice in his head at the moment. "Things are still very painful, very loud, and my vision is a bit blurry. Are there flowers somewhere?"

"Oh, dear, I hoped that moving them into the hallway would be far enough, but I suppose not. You usually have passed this stage by now. I'll phone down and have them removed. Any other new symptoms?" Molly asked, looking at him, ticking off his physical signs one by one, mentally. She was worried, but a part of her was thankful that her medical mind was still functioning properly.

"No, I, boat, cab, strawberry – err - leg! - elf, horse, sat – drove - right..." Sherlock trailed off, his words not making any sense at all. Molly phoned down to John and asked him to come right up. While aphasia could be a result of a migraine, it might also signal worse problems, like a stroke; and she wanted John to assess Sherlock. She had seen this only once before, and it had scared her silly - and this was not some random patient, this was Sherlock. She almost held her breath waiting for John to appear.

John and Mary both appeared in the doorway very quickly, with Mycroft right behind them. John asked Sherlock. "What is this?" and held up a mug of tea - you could smell the Earl Grey.

Sherlock blinked several times, trying to order his thoughts. "uh, fish, purse -? Dog, sandy, cottage, cat...dammit!" and subsided, clearly frustrated and starting to be frightened. His eyes were enormous as he looked at John. The pain in his head was excruciating.

"Try this, Sherlock," John said evenly, and handed him a pad and pen. In his usual scrawl, Sherlock wrote, "What is wrong with me?" and handed the pad back to John, who smiled slightly and nodded.

"Okay, so you have aphasia, most likely from the migraine, but not agraphia, which leads me to feel that it will be short-lived. You seem to have no problem understanding me, so that is a good sign. Aphasia often happens to people with long-standing history of the headaches, and you told me once that you have been having them since you were a young child. Just try to ignore it as best you can, and have some tea or coffee with caffeine to help the pain," John answered. Molly felt better just with that much information, and John proceeded to check Sherlock's vitals and do some standard neurological tests, which were all fine. "Do you think you can go back to sleep for a bit or do you need something else for the pain?"

Sherlock waved him away, took a few sips of tea, and lay back down, turning to the side that hurt the most. Molly got into bed behind him and cuddled up close with her arm around his middle. She stayed there until he dozed off again, and then slowly crept out of bed and sat back in the chair. When his breathing deepened, she went back down to the drawing-room, where John and Mary were.

"Is he really going to be all right? Is there anything I can do for him? I know it was so difficult for him to tell us all of that - you know Sherlock doesn't like to admit he _has_ feelings, and there were some pretty intense ones revealed. I just felt so helpless and so afraid - if anything happens to him, I don't know..." Molly sobbed, at last letting go the tension she had been holding inside.

"Come here, love, he's fine, it happens sometimes, but it is not a sign of permanent damage, okay?

All that tension and fear had to come out somehow, even for Sherlock Holmes. With a little more rest, the headache should resolve, and he'll be right as rain. He may have more of the migraines with continued therapy - it involves going back over what happened and gradually letting go of some of the anxiety and tension surrounding it." Mary sat down and patted the cushion next to her. Molly sat down, still obviously upset. Mary wrapped her arm around Molly and held her tightly while she cried a while.

"But – do you just think it's related to what he told us about? Would that cause this? He looked so ghastly when he was talking, and he was poised to run the whole time. I can't think what it must have done to his blood pressure! I felt so bad, all I could think to do was hold him," Molly added tearfully.

"And that was the best thing you could have done – he knew you were there and supporting him. It was a very difficult thing to talk about and likely triggered the migraine. Dr. Watson has checked his vital signs, and his blood pressure is a little higher than normal for Sherlock, but still within normal limits. I know he still has dreams and flashbacks concerning that time. He has called me sometimes when it occurs; and I am thankful he reached out to me. Now, he also has you and John and Mary," Mycroft spoke for the first time since Molly had called down to John in terror. "Dr. Hooper, you are the most important person to Sherlock now - and I can rest easier knowing that. I am very happy he has found someone like you to share his life. I know we have only begun this journey today, but we _will_ get through it. It is vitally important for both of you to address all the issues you have experienced."

Thanking everyone, Molly went back up the stairs, wanting to be there when Sherlock awakened. She hoped that his headache would be much better and that the worrying aphasia would have subsided. She knew that he seemed almost hungover after an attack, and that it sometimes took until the next day for him to feel normal again. She did feel better knowing that his vital signs were normal. She was pleased to see him still sleeping peacefully, wrapped up in the covers with his arms thrown over his head. This was one of his more usual poses when he slept - Molly hoped it meant he was in less pain now. She worried that the following sessions might produce more migraines and resolved to ask John and Mary if there were any preventive measures they could take. She picked up her book and resumed reading _Jane Eyre._

About an hour later, a series of grumbling sounds alerted her to the fact that Sherlock was waking up in his usual way - for a man who was normally so concise with his language, he could be remarkably vague when he was waking up. Finally, Sherlock sat up - slowly, this time - and blinked rapidly several times, rubbing his eyes. "Molly? What time is it? Am I making sense now?" he wondered.

"Yes, I can understand you perfectly - that is a relief! How is your head feeling now, and your tummy?" she asked, still watching him closely.

"It feels – better, but like I was hit in the head by something heavy - feels very odd, but the pain has lessened considerably." Sherlock stood carefully and headed slowly to the loo again, and splashed some water over his face. He came out looking a lot better than when he had lain down. He found his slippers and dressing gown and put them on, and held his arm out for Molly.

"Want to help me down the stairs this time? I seem to be a little unsteady yet," he said softly, his hearing still sensitive. "Maybe I can have that cup of tea now."

Molly put her arm around Sherlock's waist and held on as they slowly descended the stairs.


	7. Chapter 7

When Sherlock and Molly reached the bottom of the stairs, a trace of violet perfume was in the air. It was very faint, and Sherlock suspected she had attempted to wash off any remnants of her signature scent for his sake. He brightened a bit and walked to the breakfast area, where the group was gathered with Violet and Siger Holmes. Upon seeing him in the doorway, Violet came over and gently hugged Sherlock and tutted over his ragged appearance.

"Oh, Sherlock, you look just terrible - migraine again, dear?" she asked, kissing his temple very carefully. He just nodded slightly, and sat at the table while Molly fixed his cup of tea. He did look a fright, he supposed, his hair all at strange angles to his head - he just couldn't bring himself to brush it just yet. He also had bags under his eyes, which were red from rubbing at them.

"When did you and Father get here? I didn't know you were coming out," he said, still wincing a bit at the sound of his own voice in his head. He looked about for his sunglasses and put them on when his mother found them in a kitchen drawer. The darkness of the lenses helped immensely, and he sighed in relief.

"Well, we've been wanting to come for a couple of weeks, but Myc thought you needed some time to get sorted a bit first," Mummy answered. "I made some of the biscuits you like - the caramel ones with the chocolate bits and coconut. And the truffle ones Myc likes - _Bien sûr, il y en a assez pour tout le monde. -_ oh - and for Molly, some peanut butter and chocolate chips." Violet was given to switch into French at any time, and the boys were fluent from a young age.

Sherlock suspected that this time, it was to see if he had indeed recovered from the aphasic episode and was able to follow her. He looked at her and nodded, replying, " _Ils sont mes favoris._ " Violet smiled.

Sherlock was genuinely glad to see his parents. When he was in his second year at St. Jude's, they had attended classes the school gave for any parents who were interested, which talked more about their child's particular differences, and how to better interact and help their child adjust to the world outside him. Once they understood that they had done nothing to cause Sherlock's Asperger's, they felt relieved, and worked diligently to reconnect with their youngest. (The estrangement for so long during his early childhood deeply hurt him and embedded long-lasting feelings of worthlessness, however, which he continually struggled to overcome.) The change in attitude was a great relief to all the family. For all his protests, Sherlock was very fond of his parents, and he had flourished in the new-found closeness. Most of his grousing was for show these days - plus, it aggravated Mycroft, always a plus in Sherlock's book.

"Are you going to stay for a while?" Sherlock asked, a wistful note creeping into his voice. He found himself hoping that they would - the weeks ahead could be brutal, he knew - and having them around would certainly help both him and Molly. Her mother was not well at present, having a severe bout with arthritis, but Molly spoke to her briefly every few days. Molly was satisfied with this arrangement, although Mycroft had offered to bring her out for a visit. Molly got on with Mummy very well; sometimes better than she did with her own mother.

"Yes, we can stay if you would like us to, son. It is your decision. We don't want to make you more uncomfortable, but if you think it would be helpful... we'd be happy to lend whatever assistance we can," answered his father, looking kindly at both Molly and Sherlock. He was always the more sensitive one, and was relieved when the situation with Sherlock had resolved when he was younger.

"I think things will go better with you here for us to talk with, in between sessions. Molly's mother can't be here, and I know we both could use the distraction." Sherlock stated, busily thinking ahead, even through the migraine, to the wrenching talks yet to come. "there may well be times when we have to process things separately, and having a sounding board who is not conducting the therapy sessions would be very much appreciated, even though they are all friends."

"Then, it's settled, we'll stay as long as you wish. We can let the Burtons know we won't be returning to the other house any time soon," Mummy said. "I'll let them know and give them a list of clothing to send along. If you think of anything else you require, Sherlock, they can bring that along as well.

"Molly, dear, it is so good to see you up and about! We were quite worried about you. How are you feeling these days?" asked Mummy. She had met Molly years ago at Sherlock's and John's flat, and immediately liked her. She couldn't be happier the two of them were together, and hoped for a permanent relationship.

"Oh, I'm feeling much better, and happy to be among the conscious again," Molly answered, with a wry little smile. "I was sort of floating for a long while, occasionally taking in someone's presence or what they were saying, but didn't quite connect it to reality. I did know, on some level, that Sherlock was here with me sometimes, but couldn't make myself respond to his presence. Sometimes I felt as though I were in his mind palace and walked around it, seeing some of the things he had stored there. I know it was only myself dreaming, but it passed the time."

"I am certain it was interesting - heaven only knows what Sherlock may have stashed away in that place! I wouldn't mind a trip through there, myself. Would you like to take a short walk outside? Sherlock looks like he still needs to rest for a bit," Mummy asked, wanting to be of some use and also letting Sherlock feel he could rest easier, knowing Molly had someone to talk with if she needed.

"That would be lovely, yes, please," answered Molly, and she and Violet walked out the kitchen door. They looked around at the flowers that were left and commented on the leaves turning bright autumn colours. Molly had always loved this time of year, these colours were her favourites. It was like a final bright splash before the greys of winter settled in to stay. They mostly spoke of ordinary things, and stopped by the koi pond for a bit. This time, Violet had fish food in her pocket, and they both fed some to the perpetually greedy koi.

Meanwhile, Sherlock went into the library with his father. He was still walking gingerly, and feeling very unsteady. As he sat on a leather sofa, he put his head in his hands and sighed.

"Will - are you feeling all right? Do you need something more for your head? I could get John -" his father said. He was the only person in the world who still called Sherlock, "Will" occasionally, and the only one who would ever get away with it.

"Ahh - no, Dad, I'll be all right, just need to lie down again, I think. This morning's session was a rough one. I talked about being captured and tor-tortured. It was the first time that Molly really heard any of the specifics. I barely got through a modified explanation of what happened, and I could feel the headache building while I was still talking. It was a normal enough reaction, I suppose," Sherlock answered.

"Yes, I'd think so, too. It had to be extremely hard to talk about all that, and to feel you had to shield Molly at the same time. You've been prone to those awful headaches since you were only three, and possibly before, it was difficult to tell. They must be frightful, I can't imagine how it feels. We always worried so about you when you'd get one. There was little we could do except to get you into a dark, quiet room."

"That still helps as much as anything, to be honest. Most of the medicines I've tried just make me sleepy, which of course, helps, but they don't really help the pain itself much more than simple painkillers do. I can usually get to sleep on my own if I can get to somewhere quiet." As he said this, Sherlock took off the dark glasses, lay down on the couch and pulled the knitted blanket over him, and started to doze off.

"I'll be right here, reading, if you do need anything, Will, or if you want to talk a bit without Molly around. We've been so concerned for you ever since this whole thing with that devil started. I hope that Moriarty is burning in the fires of Hell for all he has done," his father said from the chair by the fireplace. "He has hurt one of my boys and caused so many problems for the other, I could strangle him myself if he weren't already dead."

"Thanks, Dad, I'll remember that; right now I just need to sleep," Sherlock mumbled, and drifted off finally. He was right back in the bunker in Zrenjanin, Serbia. This time, it was Tihomir (why did all these torturers have these ridiculous names? "peace"?) who was wielding the chains, tying Sherlock's wrists high above him and pulling him up via a pulley so that his feet didn't quite touch the floor. It was agony trying to put some of his weight onto his feet, and never quite getting there. His arms felt like they would just dislocate from his shoulders, and he was afraid they would, because that wouldn't stop them from repeating the process. If he was lucky, he would soon pass out...

Then in the next instant, he saw Molly, chained to a bed somewhere, heavily pregnant. She appeared to be in pain - labour? She was trying hard not to make any noise, but she was obviously in a lot of pain. There was a person in the room with her, and he gave her an injection of something - maybe it would let her sleep. But no, it only seemed to increase her discomfort, and her contractions got harder and more frequent. Ahh, this must have been what Mycroft told him when he had asked where Molly was, when he was finally able to form a question in the hospital. Not something he had personally witnessed, then, just a reconstruction of the information he was given. He didn't want to see what happened next...

"Will? Wake up, you need to wake up, son!" his father called to him, sounding a long distance away. Sherlock looked around and realised he was not in the room with Molly any more, but didn't know precisely where he was. He turned toward his father's voice and -

"What? Dad? Why are you here? I've just been -" Sherlock started, but was stopped by the look of worry on his father's face.

"You were crying out in your sleep, Will, and it didn't sound like you were having anything but terrible memories. I thought it best to wake you," Siger said, placing a steadying hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"It was awful - I was having a flashback to the bunker where Myc found me. I was being hauled up by the arms so my feet couldn't touch the floor, and then I was beaten. Then I thought I was in the room while Molly was being forced into labour, and she was in so much pain. I didn't want to see what was going to happen with her next - Dad, Molly – erm - Molly hasn't seen the scars yet from all that was - done - to me. Do you think she will find them too off-putting to want to be with me any more? I don't know quite how to say anything to her - I guess I'll have to take my shirt off and show her, but part of me doesn't want to do that. What do you think?" Sherlock said, very softly. Siger's youngest son was now sitting up, a forlorn look on his face. He looked like a child, afraid and worried.

Siger sat down next to Sherlock and put his arm around him, as he was trembling quite a lot. "Will, I think you know Molly has loved you for years, and some scars will not change that. Also, she is a doctor, and understands more than most what you went through when you acquired those wounds. You know, they say scars show where we have been, they do not dictate where we are going. Just something to remember. Do you really think she would forsake everything you have together for some marks on your skin? I don't think so. I know it may be a bit awkward at first to let her see them, but it will not be much in the long run, truly," he said to Sherlock, who was still looking quite peaky. "Are you sure you don't want me to call John in? I really think I should."

At Sherlock's silence and seeing him become even more pale, Siger went in search of the good doctor. He was out in the kitchen with Violet, Mary, Molly, and Mycroft, who had dropped in for a cup of tea.

"John could you come into the library with me for a moment? I think Sherlock needs something more for that headache - he is looking more peaky and pale, and I know he is hurting badly," he said, as John and Molly jumped up and Molly rushed toward the library, with John following as soon as he grabbed his medical kit.

 **(Violet's French means "** **There is enough {of it} for everyone." )**

 **(Sherlock's reply is "They are my favourites." )**

 **The quote about scars is from David Rossi, in a Criminal Minds episode, and is stated as being by T S Owen, originally.**

 **A special thanks for help with this chapter goes to my friend, Natalie**

 **This work was uu-betaed. If I owned anything, especially Sherlock, I'd be in Spain- oh, I may have mentioned that before ;) Please read and review-thanks so much!**

 **~joan**


	8. Chapter 8

Too Deep For Tears – Chapter 8

(later that same evening)

Molly was upstairs in their room, preparing for bed. Sherlock had slept on the couch in the library for an hour and a half after John gave him something for the pain, then had awakened and was able to manage some soup with a few unsweetened biscuits for the evening meal. She hoped that was the end of that migraine, it had made him miserable long enough. Molly hated to think how he had ever coped when he was out on his own, in god knows what conditions. She came out of the en-suite to find Sherlock sitting on the bed.

He looked better, but skittish. He was fidgeting, drumming his fingers on the bed and his feet were lightly tapping out a rhythm. "Molly – erm - I don't know how to tell you this, except to just say it - do you want to see my back - and, and - elsewhere? I know the scars are not pretty, and I want you to see them before we make any more commitments to each other - I won't hold you to anything that we said before I went away that last time," he said, looking up at her from under his fringe, trying to keep his voice steady as he spoke softly.

Molly walked toward him a few steps, until she was right beside him. She sat down on the bed at his side, placed her hand under Sherlock's chin to raise his head, took his hands in hers and looked straight into his eyes. "Sherlock, yes, I will look at your back, and anything else - but know this - I will always love you, no matter what scars you carry. Remember, I know you got them because you were captured trying to save us all from Moriarty's remaining thugs. That you'd do this for your friends, has not been lost on any of us," she continued, helping Sherlock to shed his pyjama top and vest as he turned so that she could see his back. It was criss-crossed with fading red and silvery-white lines from the whip, and there were marks where the added metal bits at the ends of the lashes had cut into his flesh far deeper than the leather alone. The cane marks from his childhood encounters with Mr. Smythe (which Molly had seen before) had largely faded, but were still visible as fine white lines across his shoulders. Molly touched him tenderly, tracing her fingers along some of the lines, noticing his sharply indrawn breath at her first touch. There were also some marks she had not heard about – a scar that definitely had to be from a bullet wound in his right upper arm, and a similar one on his back near his left shoulder. His arms and legs were riddled with lash scars and there were also the ones from the surgery to reset his leg and arm.

Molly asked Sherlock to stand up when he indicated there were more. She gently pushed his pyjama bottoms and pants down. There were also other scars from surgical instruments used in the torture all over his body, and even his genitals and buttocks had not been spared. His hands, almost miraculously, looked pretty much as they had before he left for the mission, the fingernails having grown back in normally, and his fingers had healed well. He didn't seem to have any lasting arthritic or other changes in function in his hands, though they probably pained him at times. She followed along his body, touching the marks very gently and telling him she loved him, kissing along the lines and scars. Sherlock stood there through it all, his nervousness showing in his tense posture, tears shining and threatening to brim over in his eyes.

Molly carefully tugged up his bottoms, and turned him around so that he was facing her. She took his face in her hands and kissed him tenderly. How could he think she would leave him for this? She knew whatever she said next would be very important, and took a deep breath to steady her voice.

"Sherlock, when I look at these, I only feel sad that you had to bear all this. Not pity, but just sadness. You are still the brilliant, devastatingly handsome man I fell in love with, the first time I laid eyes on you - nothing has changed about that. Absolutely nothing has changed about the way I love you, and desire you, when you are ready for that again. I will be here with you, and I know we will get back to the relationship we had before as much as is possible. There are no time limits, and no expectations, all right? We can go at whatever pace you think is okay, just tell me. I'll be here, I've got you, I'm not going anywhere without you. I made my choice a long time ago and it won't change."

"But, Molly, what if... what if I am - never able – erm - to go back to what we had before? The doctors tested me and said I can still father children, but I can't even think about – _that_ \- right now. I can't expect you to -" Sherlock started to say, blushing, tears spilling down his cheeks at last.

"Sherlock, I am not going anywhere, do you really understand that, love? We will have whatever life we can have, and it will be better than what I could have with anyone else - _anyone_ , all right? Don't worry yourself about this. There _is_ something I'd like to know, though. I could feel that you were trying to minimise the story of your capture and torture. Is there anything else you need to tell me about what they did to you, Sherlock? If there is, you can tell me, now or later, I will not judge you for anything; you had no control over what was happening. I won't tell anyone, unless your health is at stake. We both have a lot to get through before we are finished here, and it will take some time to adjust. Then we'll have a lifetime together, and plenty of time to work things out. Please, don't get yourself upset over this, and fret. I love you and I know that you love me, even if you don't say it much. If we're meant to have another little one, it will happen, but I still want _you_ more than anything. I am so happy and relieved that you are here with me again. Now, let's get these back on you - are you sure they are warm enough? Do you need another layer? I'll just go and get another if...no? All right, would you like some socks to wear to bed, too? I have some here, they are new and very soft. Here, let me put these on, I know how cold your feet are - especially on my back! Okay, love, just come to bed and let me hold you."

Sherlock sat there, still looking shattered and nervous, and blushing a deep magenta. He replied shyly, "Molly, I did try to make it a little less – graphic - for you, but that is all. I wasn't - they didn't – erm - do anything else to me, not like that," he finally got out what he was trying to say. Molly got up to draw the covers down for them.

Molly held the covers out, and Sherlock climbed into their bed. She followed and lay with her head on his chest, gently tracing circles and "I love you" over and over with her fingers. She could feel him relaxing, and she kissed him on the lips, hugging him tightly to her. He turned onto his side so that he was facing toward her, and Molly pulled him close, so that his face was against her breasts, and he nuzzled against her. She held him snugly as his breathing evened out and he fell asleep. Molly lay awake for a while longer, thinking about the day and wondering what the next would have in store for them. She was just so thankful that, after all he went through, Sherlock was back with her again, and that there had been no sexual assault as far as she knew - maybe as far as Sherlock knew - but she would ask Mycroft one day, just to be certain. Molly would never count it against Sherlock, but she'd like to know, in the event that Sherlock experienced any additional medical issues or stress from it. She ran her fingers softly through Sherlock's curls, and even in his sleep, he snuggled closer. She smiled at this, truly realising he did feel safe here with her, and hoping he would always come to her when he was upset and needed comfort. Soon, she also relaxed and fell asleep.

Both their dreams were fraught with disturbing images of what they had undergone. They each awoke slightly out of breath from fear and from running in their dreams to escape whatever horror they were reliving. Fortunately, they awakened near the same time, and talked about what they were dreaming of – Sherlock having more dreams about his captivity and torture, and Molly was reliving again the kidnapping and then the labour pains. The panicky feelings soon abated as they talked and held each other and they were eventually able to get back to sleep and have more pleasant dreams.

Strangely, they both imagined themselves in Sherlock's mind palace, wandering in unfamiliar corridors. They each caught glimpses of the other, but always at a distance - never finding themselves in the same chamber together. They each passed many items from their childhood and their lives prior to their meeting at Barts, often little memories and bits Sherlock had tucked away for safekeeping in a special room. Toby and Redbeard were seen roaming around in various corridors and chambers. They both saw a small concert hall, and could hear Sherlock's latest violin piece playing in the background. They each knew where the baby's half-prepared room lay, and avoided it for the time being. Molly knew that Sherlock slept better the latter part of the night when she awoke briefly to change position, to find him sprawled out over her. When morning came and their alarm sounded, they woke up fairly refreshed in spite of their disturbed rest, and shared a small smile as they compared notes on their dreams of the latter part of the night.

While Molly took a shower and did the rest of her morning routine, Sherlock returned to his room to do the same. He was very relieved to find all the traces of the migraine had at last dissipated, and he was as ready to face the new day as was possible. He dressed in jeans again - black ones this time, topped by a dark claret jumper and a gunmetal-grey shirt beneath it. His now-everyday trainers and some whimsical socks that Molly had given him one Christmas (decorated with owls) completed his look.

Sherlock walked over to collect Molly and found her brushing her hair. Interesting - she had chosen much the same colours for her ensemble today. Dark navy jeans, a deep wine-coloured jumper, and her brown ballerina flats, with socks also decorated with owls. He smiled at the choices they had each made, unaware of what the other would be wearing. Perhaps it was a good omen - not that he believed in those, but it surely couldn't hurt. He took the hair ribbon from Molly and tied a perfect bow on the end of her braid for her. Although he'd never try to dictate how she wore her hair, he admitted that it looked lovely longer, and loved to run his hands through it.

Joining hands at the top of the stairs, the couple descended and went into the breakfast room, ready to face the next session, where more difficult memories were waiting for them.


	9. Chapter 9

When Molly and Sherlock walked into the breakfast area, everyone was already there, excepting John and Mary. They had elected to take an early-morning walk round the garden and the house. Sherlock's mother was cooking, since she didn't often get the chance to cook for both her boys, and others besides. The coffee was freshly-brewed, and Sherlock headed for the cupboard to find a mug. Molly nodded when he looked at her, indicating she wanted a coffee, too. Sherlock added what they each liked, and then they took seats at the table near Sherlock's father, who was reading a newspaper whilst waiting for his wife to finish the eggs, streaky bacon, and grilled tomatoes, with beans and toast.

Sherlock searched the paper for the crossword, then grabbed a pen from a drawer in the kitchen cabinet. He found that he was fairly hungry because the day before he had not taken in much, and most of what little he did eat was ejected so quickly. He made up for that at breakfast. Violet beamed - it was unusual for her youngest to eat much, and she was glad he was eating, sure it would help him weather the day's counselling session. Sherlock fairly flew through the puzzle, as per his usual habit.

Molly watched as Sherlock worked the crossword, knowing it was something he enjoyed every day, even though he protested some of the clues and often emailed the Times to correct them. She was also eating well, knowing she might be doing more talking today. She shared a few words with Sherlock's dad and thanked his mother for the excellent meal.

After they had finished their main course, everyone had a pastry from the assortment provided. Sherlock cut a quick smirk at his brother, but Mycroft only gave one of his tight little smiles, and didn't rise to the bait. He stood and went into his office to do some work, Anthea already having breakfasted earlier. She had collected the day's news from around the globe for Mycroft's attention.

Sherlock got a cardigan for himself and one for Molly from the hall closet, and they went out the back door to the garden, meeting John and Mary just returning. They exchanged a few words, and John and Mary went back into the house to have their breakfast.

This time, Molly and Sherlock headed out a bit farther into the back gardens, which were extensive. Sherlock's parents were avid gardeners and spent much of their time when they were at this house in gardening and planning for the next season. There were a number of small paths laid out, and Sherlock turned to one on the left. They walked past lovely plantings, and came to the small man-made pond where brightly-coloured koi darted about. Sherlock had loved the creatures since he saw them at St. Jude's, and his parents had gladly obliged him and built the pond, thrilled that he liked watching the colourful fish. Molly smiled as he told her about them, seeing in her mind a small, serious boy with dark curls, lying on the bench at pond-side, studying the vivid fish intently. He had some food for the koi in his cardigan pocket. He gave Molly some and showed her how to hold the food in her hand and let them eat from it. She didn't tell him that his mother had done the same previously - he was obviously enjoying sharing the fish with Molly. Sherlock promised to show her some more of the grounds. He loved small creatures like frogs and salamanders and had often brought them inside when he was a boy, but always returned them without harm. Only those he found already dead were subject to further study... After about a half hour he and Molly returned to the house to begin the next session.

As before, a tea tray was set on the side table in the drawing-room. Sherlock decided he didn't want any tea and walked out to the kitchen for some bottled water. He picked up a bottle for Molly while he was there, so she would have a choice of beverage. John had a small medical kit with some supplies tucked away inconspicuously within easy reach, if needed. Sherlock and Molly took their places on the settee and held hands for reassurance.

Sherlock's parents stayed in the kitchen area, not wanting to seem like they were eavesdropping. They knew that Mycroft would let them know the gist of what happened at each session, so they could be better prepared to deal with the aftermath, if either Molly or Sherlock wished to talk to a neutral party. Violet was also making some more soup for dinner, as she knew Sherlock loved her soups, and might not be feeling like heavier foods this evening. Siger sat at the table, helping her to chop up the veg into small chunks.

In the drawing-room, John began. "So, Sherlock, first - how do you feel today? Headache resolved all right? Can you tell us how you feel now that you have told us about your capture and – erm - treatment at the hands of the Serbians? Any new thoughts or dreams last night?"

"The headache is quite resolved now, thanks. It was a nasty one. I did have a few flashback-type dreams while I was having the migraine. It was pretty much the same as most of my others have been of that time. I would start with being restrained by one of the torturers, either with my hands in chains and spread so that I could not relax, or having both arms pulled up over my head until I was just off the floor, and unable to get any purchase to rest a bit of my weight on my feet. Then one of the torturers would start in beating me with whatever they had at hand, usually a bat or other piece of wood, sometimes pipes or chains, or a cat o' nine tails. The cat was one of the worst, as it cut into my flesh on every stroke. I usually woke up from the dream just when I thought I would pass out from the pain, or when someone would hear me and shake me awake," Sherlock answered. "I also had a similar nightmare when I first fell asleep last night. The only major change in it was the identity of the thug who was beating me. I also dreamed later that I was in the room where Molly was held, and watched as her captors gave her something to make her labour progress more quickly.

"I've had nightmares about that before, of being with Molly and then dreaming that I could see her being taken away. I - didn't want to see what happened next, so I somehow forced myself awake. I woke to find Molly was also awake after her own bad dream, and we talked for a while about them, and eventually went back to sleep. We both had more pleasant dreams the latter part of the night. Both of us spent some time wandering my mind palace."

"All right, thank you. Molly, what did you think, hearing all about Sherlock's capture for the first time yesterday?" Mary enquired.

"Well, I knew that Sherlock had a few close calls while we were still in contact, but nothing like what I heard yesterday. Last night, I saw the scars he has from that time. I found they made me feel very protective of Sherlock, even though the incidents are over now. I am not repelled by the scars, because I know he was trying to keep those he loved, safe. Whether or not he disclosed anything is not of importance to me. If he did, it was only because no person can withstand such treatment for very long. I am only sad he had to endure such horrible things, but each time I see them, I will be reminded of his courage." Molly finished and looked at Sherlock, who was sitting very quietly, listening to her. He continued holding her hand, but she felt him relax a little when she had finished speaking.

Molly and Sherlock carried on talking about their feelings on what Sherlock related the day before. John and Mary were supportive, but tried to just gently guide the discussions, letting the couple go their own direction in their conversations. Sherlock said he did feel some measure of relief at having got the story out to Molly finally, and she answered she was also glad the matter had been at last opened. They both knew there would be many more talks, but one of the biggest topics was now open for them both to talk more freely. At around three they ended the session for the day, and Sherlock and Molly went up to their room for a break, and probably a nap before tea.

 **A/N This work was unbeta-ed. All mistakes are mine alone. Still own nothing- please read and review if oyu like. Thanks for reading,**

 **~joan**


	10. Chapter 10

Too Deep For Tears- Chapter 10

(two weeks later, the Holmes' country house)

Molly and Sherlock came in from their morning walk and went into the drawing-room as usual. The past two weeks of sessions had focused on Sherlock's capture and torture at the hands of Moriarty's Serbian associates. With each re-telling and answering questions about that time, Sherlock seemed to let go a bit more of his anxiety and fear. He was sleeping better and the headaches had nearly ceased to bother him, although at first they were frequent. Molly saw a great difference in him, and when they were alone, he seemed more relaxed with her. Sherlock knew that the memories would always stay with him in some form, and he would suffer nightmares about the torturers for the rest of his life on occasion, but they seemed to recede more and more into the background of his consciousness, and intruded less on his daily life. He was exceedingly glad about that.

Mycroft also saw a huge amount of progress made by his little brother. He realised that what Sherlock had needed to finally begin moving past this, was Molly and her unfailing support and love. Real hope blossomed that Sherlock's life could go back to what was normal, for him.

Today, they began a new topic. As usual, John, Mary, and Mycroft and Anthea, were gathered in the drawing-room with Molly and Sherlock. Everyone took their places around the room. Mary took the lead today.

"Molly, today we'd like to talk about you. How you felt while Sherlock was away, the pregnancy, and your abduction - and as much of what happened as you can remember. Anthea and Mycroft are here to help fill in some information that you might not recall. Would you like to start?"

"Well, all right, I - I guess I can. I'll try to get things in the proper order. Sherlock may have to help me here and there," Molly said hesitantly. "As you probably have figured out by now, I - erm- helped Sherlock to fake his death when he fell from Barts, with help from Mycroft. He then stayed with me until he was recovered from his injuries, which thankfully were not too serious. He was with me for about three weeks, I think, and then he left for the first part of his mission. That is the reason I asked for his violin - he played it then and whenever he was staying with me. Mycroft provided me a mobile that was untraceable, and Sherlock could text me occasionally. It was a help for both of us, and at least I knew that he was safe when he checked in with me."

"So, you knew all along that he was alive. Did that make it difficult to interact with the rest of Sherlock's friends?" Mary inquired.

" Very much so - I didn't want to lie to them, but Sherlock's mission and safety were paramount. Once every few months, he would appear in my flat and stay for a few days. Mostly, I patched up some minor injury for him and made him eat and rest where he was safe and could actually relax into a real sleep. Then, one morning I would wake up and realise he had left again. This went on for almost a year. We became closer with each visit, and more comfortable with each other."

"And you two kept in touch through the mobile that Mycroft provided you? Did you know where he was all the time?" asked John.

" Yes, we kept in touch at irregular intervals, and no, I seldom knew where exactly he was working - both for his and my own safety. Mycroft assigned a security team to me, but they were very discreet. Then, after an absence of four months or so, Sherlock appeared and was obviously very worn out and stressed. At first, I just hugged him forever, then we settled onto the sofa. One thing led to another, and, erm - well, you know... we had been heading in that direction for ages. It was wonderful to share that closeness with him after all that time. He left about three weeks later."

"When – when did you learn you were pregnant?" Mary wondered.

"Almost four months later. I realised that the - erm - irregularity in my cycles was not just worry over Sherlock's safety. I was on the Pill, but I guess we were in that 3% that it isn't effective for. I saw my friend and gynaecologist, Laura, and she confirmed the pregnancy. I got home from her office and sent Sherlock a text and asked him to call me. When he did, I told him that I was pregnant, and he was not angry. In fact, once he had time to process it, he was actually happy about the baby, even though we certainly hadn't planned for it to happen. He was getting a migraine when he phoned me, and had to end the call because he wasn't feeling well. I worried so much when I knew he had a headache. I feared for his safety if he actually went to sleep, as he is prone to do with a migraine."

"John asked, "What happened after you broke the news to Sherlock?"

Molly replied, "I soon heard from Mycroft that Sherlock had called him, and he was increasing my security team. The agents all seemed friendly and were not intrusive, so I quickly became comfortable with them around me at all times. The pregnancy progressed normally, and I was able to text Sherlock and keep him informed of our progress. He told me he only had one more group to take care of, and he would be able to return home for good. Then, I stopped hearing from him, and learned from Mycroft that he had been captured and was being held somewhere, but they couldn't locate him exactly, in spite of the fact that he had tracking devices implanted in his body. I was so worried!

"Then, one evening when I was about to go to bed, someone knocked on my door. I checked the camera, as I was told to do, and seeing one of 'my' agents, I opened the door. He burst into the room, followed quickly by two strangers who held a cloth soaked in chloroform to my face. I tried to fight them off, but was quickly overcome by the chloroform, and didn't realise they were taking me elsewhere. I awoke chained to a single bed. They tried to get information about Sherlock and Mycroft from me, but I really didn't know much, and they soon realised that and quit. I was still kept confined to the room, but was able to use the bathroom without them following me, and in general, was treated fairly well - for a time. The room was chilly and I often felt cold, and had started with some respiratory infection, but they did not acknowledge or treat it."

"Did you have any sense of where you were, or how long you were there?" asked Mary.

" Not really - I was unconscious when they took me there, and there were no windows and no clocks to try and judge how much time passed. I now know through Mycroft that I was right there in London all the time. One afternoon, they came in and said that Mycroft was closing in on us. I was at first hopeful, and anticipated rescue. That soon changed, as one of the men started an iv and gave me fluids that had oxytocin added to stimulate me to have contractions. I guess with the stress of the situation and the medicine, my uterus was more than irritable, and I quickly went into premature labour. Just before Mycroft, Anthea, and some other members of their team came into the room to get me, I guess that I delivered the baby. I only remember that it hurt a lot, since I had no pain relief or anaesthetic, not even a local one, and had not yet taken classes for natural childbirth, so I didn't know what to do to help myself. I remember hearing that the baby was – not alive - and then passing out. The next thing I remember was waking up with Sherlock reading to me." Molly finished speaking and then burst into tears as she thought of the import of what she had just related to the rest of the group.

The other members of the therapy team were cognizant of the facts, but it was still difficult to hear about it from Molly's point of view. Sherlock sat there silently, holding onto Molly for dear life, though he wasn't sure whether it was more for her or for himself. They were both pale. When asked if they wanted a short break, they both nodded, and went into the kitchen for tea. Molly was crying and Sherlock looked like he was about to faint. Violet and Siger went to them and hugged them, and then directed them to sit at the table, while Violet made them some hot tea. Siger stayed at the table with the younger couple. If it was hard for him and Violet to see the devastation that this session had wreaked on their son and his partner, how much worse did Molly and Sherlock feel? He noticed that Sherlock was starting to stim, his leg bouncing along to some unheard rhythm.

Mummy came back over with two cups of tea and some biscuits; she just couldn't _not_ put them out, just in case either felt like nibbling on something. She came around the table and put her arms around first Molly, then Sherlock. She felt so badly for the both of them - she knew how hard it was for her to conceive Sherlock, and she could not imagine losing a child at birth, although they _had_ lost their nephew Sherrinford in service to MI6. The pain had to be as awful as that which Sherlock endured at the hands of his tormentors, if not worse.

"Would either of you like to say anything now, Molly? Will? We will listen, if it helps," Siger said, hurting for them both.

"Thank you, Mummy and Dad, but I think we will just go upstairs for a bit and rest. I think Molly is all talked out for now," Sherlock answered as Molly nodded her agreement. He took Molly's arm and they stood and walked slowly up the stairs.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock and Molly reached their room and put on night clothes and climbed into their bed. Both of them just wanted to shut out the rest of the world and hold each other. They held onto each other tightly and Molly just wept, sobbing uncontrollably, not even trying to hold back. Sherlock had known the basic story, but to hear Molly telling it was horribly difficult. He still felt as though he should have been there for her, as illogical as that notion was. He also didn't know what to do with all this emotion - he had lived his life rigidly holding his feelings inside, and that just wasn't working any more. He also cried a bit, which was becoming more familiar to him, with all of this stressful revealing of information. For her part, Molly was reliving the horrible events all over again, and felt the baby's loss anew. After a long time, they stopped crying for the moment, and turned to each other and kissed, and closed their eyes, holding on tightly to each other, trying to get a little sleep. To their surprise, they both fell asleep within a few minutes, the weeping having tired them both out.

Downstairs, John, Mary, Mycroft and Anthea sat, ate lunch, and talked about how they would proceed. The first thing they discussed was whether or not Sherlock and Molly would even come back for another round of talking today, or if it would best be put off till the next day. They opted to let the couple be the deciding factor, and went to the kitchen to have some tea, as well. Mycroft saw that his parents were still there, looking very upset. He hated for them to be this saddened, but knew that they had already helped a great deal with Sherlock and Molly. He fixed his tea and sat near his father, sighing.

"Well, that was difficult for Molly to get out, and for Sherlock to hear. I believe we are almost at the nadir of our journey, and it can only get better from here," said Mycroft. "We do have some news for them about their child, and I hope it will assist a little with their grieving. I can only hope it does help. Sherlock will need help dealing with all these feelings coming to the surface – it is not within his experience to have such an overwhelming tide of emotion with which to try and cope. I fear it may set him back quite a lot. I'm so glad you could come and be here with us - Sherlock and Molly both seem very comforted by your presence."

Sherlock woke before Molly, and went to his room while she was still sleeping. He wanted to get his journal, and after he found it, went into the loo to wash his face with cool water. He put on a dressing gown (this one was heavier than his silk ones and a deep aubergine in colour) and slippers, and took it downstairs. He showed it to Mycroft and Anthea, and they thanked him and said they had a few things to add before the next session began. He then returned to find Molly just waking up, and helped her to put on a dressing gown and found her slippers where she had kicked them off that morning. They both sat in Sherlock's room by the fire, gathering their strength for the next talks. After they had warmed themselves, they decided to go downstairs. Sherlock took Molly's hand, and they returned to the kitchen, where the others waited. They sat at the table and were served some fresh tea.

"Molly, Sherlock, how do you feel about what Molly related this morning? Is there anything that we can help you with?" asked Mary.

"Um, yes - I'd like to know whether the baby was a girl or a boy," Molly answered. "It might help me to remember him or her, and not have to call our baby, 'it'. I never got to see him or her, but I'd at least be able to imagine it better. Mycroft, Anthea - do you know? Please tell me you know, I have thought so much about this since I have been awake again."

"Yes, Molly, we can help you. Sherlock doesn't know this, either, and I'm sure he wants to know, as well," Anthea said. "When we found you, Molly, the baby was already born, and we couldn't do anything to save it. What we could do, and did, was to gather up the baby and make sure we did a few things to ensure that you both would have something to remember of your child. The baby was a little boy." Anthea paused, but both Sherlock and Molly seemed too distraught to comment just then, so she continued.

"I brought the baby out of that place, and made sure to take him to a mortuary to have all the usual preparations made for burial. I also enlisted the help of some people who specialise in helping parents who experience a loss like this. Together, we made some remembrances for you both to have and to keep, so that you can remember him with some sense of connection," Anthea told them.

"What sort of remembrances?" asked Sherlock, brows furrowed and looking like thunder as he said it, his eyes still reddened and puffy.

"It may sound a little strange, but there are photographers who make it their life's work to take photographs of babies who have died. We contacted one for you, so you can see him any time you want to look at the photos. I'd like to tell you about the other things we did for you now, and when I am finished, we can help you to go over what we have done, together. Is that all right with the two of you?" she asked, looking kindly at each of them.

"Yes, oh, yes! I can't believe we have pictures! Although I don't know if everything was all right, h-he was so early. Sherlock, do you want to see them?" Molly asked hesitantly.

"Yes, love, I do want to see him, although I am, like you, a little hesitant. I was aware that Anthea had done something, but I didn't know exactly what, until now. She and Mycroft felt they should give you a chance to come out of your – erm - sleep - before they showed anything to me, and I agreed because I knew you would wake up eventually," Sherlock replied, taking her hand again. He didn't add that he had not wanted to deal with all this without Molly, if possible – but she knew his thoughts and squeezed his hand.

"Okay, then, we'll show you in a few minutes. We also made a few keepsakes for you. We have a lock of baby's hair, a set of footprints, and a hospital-type bracelet with the birth information on it. There is a knitted hat that was on the baby's head when I took care of him, and his blanket. I placed another hat and blanket on him, so don't fret about that. Since I know you are Catholic, Molly, I made sure to baptise the baby, and I have that information on a card for you. Are you two doing okay so far?" Anthea asked again, softly.

"Yes, I believe we are - ?" said Sherlock, looking at Molly, who nodded. "I'd like to thank you both for doing all these things - it does make me feel a bit better, knowing he had someone taking care of him when we couldn't."

Molly found her voice again. "Oh, Anthea, thank you so much! I know it won't bring him back, but now I can see what he looked like, and have these keepsakes to remember him a little better. How did you know about these things? I never realised they existed."

"I have a sister who had her own loss a few years ago, and I was present when she delivered. The nurses and the other people on the staff made keepsakes for her, and I know it helped her a lot. She doesn't look at them every day any more, but she knows that she could, and it makes all the difference to her. I never forgot how much of a transformation it made in her feelings, and how kind everyone was - and I'm certain that she hasn't, either." Anthea replied, looking at the couple with tears shining in her eyes.

"I thought you would want it done, so I arranged to have him buried in our family cemetery here on the grounds. There is a temporary marker but no permanent one - I thought you might wish to choose a name and then we can have a gravestone carved. Sherlock, forgive me for going ahead with these preparations, but there was some time constraint involved." Mycroft added.

Sherlock nodded, taking all this new information in and beginning to process it, making the baby's room in his mind palace more complete with each new piece of the puzzle that he was told. "Of course, brother. I realise that those arrangements had to be made in a timely manner, and that you did so, leaving to us to mark this passage as our own, now that we are able to do it. Is there more, or may we see the items you have so thoughtfully prepared, now?"

 **A/N- All these kinds of keepsakes are made for the loss of an infant, at least in most larger hospitals. One place that specialises in the photos is called Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep. Please read and review. This work was unbeta-ed and any mistakes are mine alone.**

 **~joan**


	12. Chapter 12

Too Deep For Tears- Chapter 12

"Of course, Sherlock," answered Anthea. "We know you have been working for some months on a journal that you wished to share with Molly. We have added to your journal, and we'd like to share it with you now." She took a leather-bound book and brought it over to the table. The first part of the book was filled with Sherlock's handwriting - the neat, penmanship-worthy handwriting that he was capable of when he put his mind to it. Molly was amazed at the writing - she was more used to Sherlock's everyday spidery scrawl.

The journal contained a history of both their families, and went back to their great-great-grandparents. Sherlock had contacted Molly's family and they had gladly helped him. With each of the pictures of an ancestor, there was a brief story underneath the photo. Dates of birth and death, and any significant events for that person were included. It all made a wonderful keepsake, and a resource for them both, and for any children they might have in future. For the first time, Sherlock began to entertain a small hope they might get through this, after all.

Molly read through every page, marvelling at how thorough Sherlock had been. He had obviously done not only online research, he had talked to her family members for stories and had recorded them as well. She was beyond touched by his thoughtfulness. There were photos that she never knew existed, of her grandparents, great-grandparents, and great-great-grandparents. There was also a page laid out in traditional "family-tree" style, showing the generations of her family. She stopped at the picture of her father and gently touched his face. She still missed him very much; he had always been her rock, and her biggest supporter when she wanted to go into pathology. Others in her family had been aghast at the idea of sweet little Molly dealing with corpses all the time, but her dad always said that she should do what she loved. If not for him, she and Sherlock might never have met. She shuddered to think of that outcome - Sherlock was so precious to her, and she took special care to be certain that he knew it...

Molly turned another page, and here started the Holmes family tree. They certainly had a long history of unusual names for their children, she noticed. She was fascinated to see the French side of the family - the Vernets,Violet's roots. Molly was surprised to see the names of three painters who bore the Vernet surname. As for the Holmes side, there were both English and Scottish branches. She randomly wondered if Sherlock's and John's distant family members ever intersected anywhere in history, and smiled slightly at the thought of another Holmes-Watson friendship. She was thankful John had come along, it was so good for Sherlock to have a friend he could always count upon to set him right.

She stopped when she got to the most recent generation of the Holmes family. There was the record of Mycroft and Sherlock, with both their dates of birth and baptism. When she looked at Siger's family, she saw he had several brothers and sisters. One nephew's photo showed a handsome young man named Sherrinford, who apparently died in his twenties. He bore a strong resemblance to Sherlock, dark curls and lanky, but had dark eyes.

Sherlock sat next to her, looking at the photos he had so painstakingly assembled, and tried not to fidget too much. He was stimming, impatient to get to the end, and see their baby, but he made no mention of it and allowed Molly the time she needed to read all of the entries leading up to the present. He saw her linger on her father's image, and knew she was thinking of him fondly. He was able to collect lots of photos from her relatives, and was happy that a few were new to her.

Molly had reached the portion of the journal devoted to the two of them. There were pages of photos of them as children, starting with newborn portraits and continuing through their lives. She saw Sherlock as a toddler, a very slight, pale child with a perpetually worried face and those haunting verdigris eyes. As the years progressed, he became taller and his hair fuller, but the eyes stayed the same. They pierced right through you even from these photos. She could tell when he went to St. Jude's – he soon looked more comfortable in his own skin, and it showed in his whole body. He started smiling - a bit - in many of the pictures, and just generally looked happier. There were a few of Sherlock with his violin - it was so sweet to see the tiny one that he started out playing, and to see the violin's size increase with his growth. Molly had heard about his school days, and she was glad St. Jude's had helped him so much, and that he and his family had reconnected. He was so beautiful that her heart ached to see the hopeful little face. There were a few with his dog, Redbeard. He had obviously loved the animal more than anything at the time, he had been a good friend and went on many adventures with Sherlock.

There were a few older ones, of him in uni - always alone, except for one with another young student with blond hair, that she knew was Victor Trevor. He was the only person who had made an effort to be a friend to Sherlock then; but alas, Victor had led the way into a drug habit and was now gone from sight, having overdosed and died years ago. There were also some of Mycroft, who looked much like he did now, always dressed so very properly once he was in school, and like he could run a small nation at the age of twelve.. There was a picture of each son at his uni graduation. Well, except for Sherlock, who had eventually received his chemistry degree after his bouts of drug use and rehab. But, there was a photo of him with the certificate, though his smile was more of a grimace at the indignity of having his picture taken. Molly smiled, just a little, when she saw this, able to tell he must have rolled his eyes immediately the camera clicked.

The photos of Molly were of less interest to her, but Sherlock loved seeing her as a young girl. She still had the same sweet expression and, he was sure, the same kind heart and soul that defined her now. Her photos also began with a newborn one, of her in her father's arms. She smiled and again touched the picture. Then a series of school pictures, Molly in her Catholic school uniform, gradually growing older if not too much bigger. Often, there was a cat in the photos with her. She was always a petite girl. Her hair was always worn very long, down past her knees in some early photos – Sherlock privately thought she looked like an angel, and was glad it had grown out again. The photos of her in uni and medical school looked much like she did now; she tried but failed to look serious and scholarly - there was always a bright smile lurking just a moment away.

Finally, there were just a few of them together - Sherlock had left room so that they could add more in future. He loved these, and often looked at them while Molly was in her catatonic state, to remind him of what he was waiting for. In his mind's eye, he saw more - their wedding, and maybe another child, someday? He internally startled at that thought - that was the first time he had sensed a glimmer of hope for the future. He surreptitiously glanced around, but no one seemed to have noticed.

Time seemed to stretch while he waited for her to finish looking through the family photos and history. He was both impatient and slightly afraid to see what lay at the last part of the journal. Sherlock knew that Anthea and his brother had worked to make the final portion as complete as possible, and to give them memories to hold onto - he was so anxious to see and yet feared the result would be upsetting to him and to Molly. Anthea said that there was nothing to fear, and she was always unfailingly kind, if a bit obsessed with his brother.

Finally, Molly stopped reading. She looked over at him, and he nodded, so she turned the page. Sherlock had grabbed her hand by this point, and was trying not to squeeze it too much as he saw...

what appeared to be just a tiny baby boy. He was wrapped in a blanket and looked like he was merely sleeping - that was not a euphemism, Sherlock realised. The photo was masterfully done, and he gazed upon his son in wonder. The tiny hands were exquisite, long-fingered like his own; the hair was dark and with hints of a curliness that would never come to pass. He appeared in other pictures to follow, dressed in a tiny outfit of blue knitted yarn- a sort of jumper and trouser set, he supposed. Then there were a few with him wearing a knitted hat as well, and lying on another, printed fabric, blanket. He found himself hardly able to draw breath, he was so mesmerised. These were, indeed, beautiful memories for them to keep. There were also photos of their baby in less clothing, so that they could get a sense of his whole little body, and how tiny - and perfectly formed - he was. Both parents noted that his toes also resembled Sherlock's almost prehensile ones. When Molly signalled, they turned the page.

Here were more keepsakes, arranged across the two open pages. A hospital-type bracelet, with "Baby Boy Hooper-Holmes" written on it, and the date and time he was born. Sherlock wondered at this, then reasoned Mycroft had access to the videotapes from the place where Molly was held. There was also another blue knitted cap, and there were also a few sets of tiny footprints on various backgrounds - some for them, and for each set of grandparents, Sherlock thought. Along with those, there were sets of small handprints, as well. He noted again how much the longish fingers mirrored his own. Speaking of grandparents, his mum and dad were sitting either side of the couple, also looking with great interest, though he detected tears in both their eyes.

Another page, and there were the certificates of birth and baptism. Both had spaces for a name to be added. Sherlock knew that Molly's Catholicism had mostly fallen by the wayside, but he also knew it would be of great comfort to her that the baby was baptised. Such basic tenets as baptism did not easily disappear from one's heart. In a tiny plastic bag lay a lock of near-black hair, which lay in a slight curl - they both focused on this small treasure of their son. Then there were a few more surprising pictures, with Mycroft holding their son, tenderly cradling him, with such a soft expression that Sherlock felt the tears pricking at his eyes. At this, Sherlock found himself quite overcome, knowing that his brother had done what he and Molly were unable to do at the time - just hold their baby. He found himself, for the thousandth time in recent months, immensely grateful for his big brother. Mycroft had always looked after Sherlock, since they were small - Sherlock couldn't recall a time when that hadn't been the case.

On the next page was a small card with the birth information and weight recorded on it. Just 1871

grams (4lb. 2 oz.) and 40.6 cm. long (16 in.). He tried to imagine how "big" that was, and could not really grasp it yet. So small, yet he took up such a large space in his parents' hearts. He blinked away the tears, and looked over at Molly. She was similarly looking at the statistics and blinking.

He slid over in his chair and put his arm around her. He wasn't sure if that move was for her or for himself, but they both needed the connection.

Molly finished viewing the pictures and looked up. Anthea was watching them both carefully, to see if they needed anything. When no one said a word, Anthea spoke, "Do you want to take a break for a few minutes, and then we'll meet back here? Or would you like some tea after a break for the loo?"

They both opted for tea after a break, and left to regather their feelings a bit in their room. Anthea had said there was a little more to cover here, and they couldn't imagine what else would come next. After going upstairs, they just sat on the couch by Sherlock's fireplace and held each other tightly, weeping again and not yet trusting their voices enough to speak.


	13. Chapter 13

Too Deep For Tears- Chapter 13

Upstairs, Sherlock and Molly talked for a while, comparing their thoughts on the baby and the beautiful keepsakes they were given. They both confessed their fears that something had been genetically wrong with their child, and the relief they each felt that he was completely whole and normal. He was just a very tiny baby. They both knew their thoughts and dreams could include him now, with a more definite grasp of how he appeared. Molly thanked Sherlock for all the work he did on the journal, and he explained how much it helped him to work on it while she was 'sleeping.' During all the times he wanted to be with her but couldn't, the journal was his near-obsession. When he went for days unable to sleep for fear of the nightmares overwhelming him again, the journal was waiting, and he could get another page researched and annotated, another photo attached and captioned. He wanted to get it, and the symphony, completed and ready for her when she was awake again. He had decided, however, to play for her when he determined that she _was_ aware, although not yet completely present.

They both their expressed amazement at all the things that Anthea was able to do for them in making the mementos, even going so far as to make a set of handprints and footprints for each of their parents. The photos, clothing, bracelets, even a lock of hair - all of these made them feel like this _had_ been a birth after all, and could be commemorated, if not precisely celebrated. They decided that they would like to name the baby, although they didn't discuss names right then. The fact that Mycroft had him buried in the family's small cemetery made them feel like he had truly been a member of the Holmes family. Even the hyphenated surname on the birth certificate was thoughtful, as they had not yet finalised their relationship, but that could also be amended if they so chose.

After sitting and talking for a little while, Sherlock and Molly went into the loo and washed their faces, went back downstairs hand in hand, and decided to continue. Sherlock's parents looked brighter when they saw that although they had both obviously been weeping, he and Molly appeared to be coping pretty well with all the new information about their son. Now they could call him that, since they finally knew the particulars of his birth. There seemed to be a new sense of purpose and a promise of a future in the air. Mycroft and Anthea both also looked relieved to see Molly's and Sherlock's reactions.

Anthea cleared her throat and said, "I'd like to talk about possibly having a small, simple ceremony of some kind to name the baby and to memorialise him. There has been no funeral, as we wanted to have you both here and well enough to participate. Obviously, it doesn't have to be religious in nature or have any clergy involved, it can be anything you want, really. You two can think about it the next few days and let us know. Of course, if you need longer, that is fine as well - there is no rush. I just also want to leave you these poems, written by other parents, which may be of comfort and useful in choosing readings to use. If you have any favourite poems or passages from books, you can include those. Many feel it is appropriate to include favourite pieces of music, as well."

Molly looked over at Sherlock, squeezed his hand, and said, "That is something that we'd like to do, also. It would just be fitting, to name him and send him on with our family gathered here - it seems right."

Anthea placed a slim volume of poetry on the table, and also another one with sample ceremonies they might want to choose. She also made it clear that they could do something completely of their own devising - there was no right or wrong here. She told them they were finished for the day, and thanked everyone for their help.

Violet was anxious for her youngest son and Molly to have something soothing to eat - it had been a difficult day for them. She warmed up the soup she had made that morning - it would be lunch for Molly and Sherlock, since the rest of the group ate when the couple were napping. She placed some unsweetened biscuits on the table, as well. Although she was going to make tea, Sherlock requested coffee. Molly asked for some orange juice. Both she and Sherlock were able to eat most of their soup, which Violet counted as a good enough meal, considering the day they had. Sherlock asked for some of the coconut-chocolate biscuits for his coffee after the meal, and his mother gladly got them out, happy he was getting a few more calories. She had Siger make certain that Sherlock and Molly were finished, and then left them looking at the book of poems and talking about what they wished to do for the ceremony.

Sherlock thought for a moment and then cleared his throat. "I - um, I have another piece of music I have worked on – a bit. If I can finish it - it is a very simple melody - would that be all right with you, Molly? I thought about him while I was writing it, even though at the time I didn't know whether the baby was a boy or a girl. It's a sort of lullaby."

"Oh, love, that would be perfect - the pieces you compose are always so pretty - and it would be something very special for us to remember him by. After all, it was you, playing your symphony to us all, that really started me coming back to you. It could become a piece we could play on his birthday, for instance, to have a sort of remembrance for him each year," Molly said, patting his hand.

"Thank you, love. It will also be a way for me to have a personal contribution to his memorial, even though I wasn't present at his birth. I'd like that very much," Sherlock answered her softly and tried to give her a small smile. He had been quiet while they were going back over his capture and torture, answering questions but not offering a lot, and Molly was glad he was talking more about this; she worried about him getting lost in that brain of his, sometimes. She noticed him starting to stim, however, and placed her hand over his larger one.

"Sherlock? Why don't we go out in the garden for a short walk, it'd do us both good to get some fresh air – don't you agree, love? We can go to the koi pond for a bit, I love to watch the fish," she suggested.

"Oh, yes, that'd be – erm - good. I could do with a walk," Sherlock answered, going to the hall closet to get them both a cardigan - then decided on his long Belstaff, and wound his purple cashmere scarf around his neck and settled into the coat, with collar flipped up as usual. He also grabbed a heavier jacket and a scarf for Molly - the wind was tossing the leaves about now, and they were still in their pyjamas and dressing-gowns. Molly observed him getting more relaxed the minute he donned the coat - she knew it was a comfort mechanism of his, a shield of sorts, and that he wore it to crime scenes even in the summertime. She realised that he was trying to calm himself after a very unsettling day, and noted the measures he used were very appropriate and not conspicuous. After making sure she had her own scarf around her, Sherlock led the way out of the kitchen.

They walked for a few minutes, and then sat on one of the benches scattered around the grounds.

Molly held Sherlock's hands in hers, and looked straight at him. "Are you all right, love? I can see you are getting more stressed-out. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I – um - really don't know, I just feel so jittery inside, my stomach is doing flips, I think," he answered, trying to make light of it, but failing - the slight smile didn't reach his eyes. "I mean, I thought I was doing okay when Anthea was talking and then we were looking at the journal and photos, and I just started to get this awful feeling - I just don't know what to do to make it ease up a bit. I know there are supposed to be steps in grieving a loss - but I feel as though I am in all of the steps simultaneously." His leg was starting to bounce again, and his fingers were doing their imitation of violin exercises.

"I think you are just expecting too much from yourself. It's all right to feel bad, it's a normal reaction to all this, even for someone who hasn't gone through a separate type of hell beforehand. It's okay to feel very sad, and to cry if you need to do that. No one expects you to be anything other than a bit nervous and scared, sometimes a bit angry, very sad, and upset right now, Sherlock - they really don't. These are our family and our closest friends, remember. We've both just learned a lot of information about our baby that neither of us knew before. We are going to be planning a funeral for our child - that is not an easy thing to contemplate, much less do. Nobody ever expects to outlive their child. The most important thing to remember is - we are in this together, and we have time. There are no deadlines, there is no right or wrong in how we decide to do this. Those steps you mentioned - everyone goes back and forth between them, it is not a linear progression – I know this from working with grief counsellors in the morgue, so I can best help the families who have had a loss. We can take time to rest, and relax, and just – breathe, okay? Can you do that for me, Sherlock? Just take a deep breath and hold it for a minute - good, now let it out – now in again – good, now out again," Molly guided Sherlock through a few of these cycles of slowing down and taking some deeper breaths, and gradually he felt calmer.

They continued through the garden until they reached the koi pond, and spent a quiet hour there watching the fish darting about, perpetually greedy for the food that Sherlock seemed to always have in his coat pockets. Finally, Sherlock stood, bringing Molly up with him, hugged her, and they started back toward the house.


	14. Chapter 14

When they got back to the house, Sherlock and Molly went up to their room and sat on the settee. They saw that there were some legal pads and pens, and Sherlock's laptop had been moved there. The small volume of poems that Anthea gave them was lying on the coffee table as well. Molly picked up the poetry book and began reading, soon becoming weepy. She sniffed and shook her head when Sherlock raised an inquisitive eyebrow at her, saying, "No, it's okay. I mean, they _are_ sad, but at the same time, beautiful. They just convey so much of what I have been feeling - I am amazed that parents going through all this could write these." She took a tissue and blew her nose, and continued reading.

Sherlock had his laptop open and was looking for readings to use for the memorial. He searched a few sites, and saved some things he liked. Some were only fragments, but he thought they might be appropriate. He browsed through some naming rituals as well, flagging the site for Molly to see later. He began to think that this _could_ be a helpful way to mark the birth of their son and then begin moving on, after all. Doing research was helpful to him internally, as well. It was a familiar routine, the way that he dealt with new situations, and Sherlock felt calmer and more in control whilst reading the articles and poetry.

He began thinking of names. He knew that Molly would probably want a name from her family to be included, and he thought that they should add one of the Holmes' more unique names as well. He suddenly wanted this so much - a name that would mark him as a 'real' Holmes – or Hooper-Holmes, he corrected.

He turned to Molly and asked quietly, "Molly, would you like to name him after someone in your family, as one of his names? I thought that he should have one of our – erm – more unusual, Holmesian, names as well, if that is all right with you?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I'd love to give him my dad's middle name, Edward, if that would be okay. Did you have a family name in mind for him?"

"I thought that perhaps we could use the name, Prescott - it would be after one of my father's brothers, and is the reason I was called Scott. Edward Prescott, how does that sound to you?" Sherlock wondered, looking aslant at Molly, with genuine interest in how she perceived the name.

"Edward Prescott Hooper-Holmes - that sounds lovely, Sherlock," she answered. "You look like you want to say something else, love. What is it?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, looked down and said, "Molly, erm, you know I am rubbish at talking about my feelings, so I'll apologise for any missteps beforehand. Now may not be the best time for this, but I want you to know that I have thought about this for a long time, since before I was captured. I hope you know by now that I do love you, and - erm – I'd be honoured if you'd consent to be my wife. I know we haven't reconnected fully, but I think that with some more time, I will be all right. I am trying, Molly, but with all we've been through, I just am not quite ready for..."

Molly looked surprised, but not shocked – Sherlock, after all, had a long-standing habit of things popping out of his mouth at odd times. She looked over at him, and was aware he was holding his breath, literally, while waiting for her answer. She turned to him, took his hands in hers, and looked directly into those beautiful quicksilver eyes, catching and holding his gaze.

"Oh, Sherlock, sweetheart, you're right, this _is_ a bit unusual, but it is so very _you._ You already know that I have loved you almost from the minute that we first met at Barts. Of course, I will marry you - it is what I have wanted for so long, as well. When did you decide to ask me? Have you been mulling this over for long, love?" she asked him.

"I – have been thinking about it for a long while, but last night when I was asleep, I was walking around in my mind palace. I went from room to room, seeing lots of the things I had stored there, of personal rather than professional significance. After a few chambers, I realised that you had permeated nearly every corner of every chamber - and I was depending on you to be there for me, always. I kept searching for you, then realised you were beside me in our bed as I became more awake. I knew then that I had to ask you now rather than later. I know it's selfish of me, but I can't help it - I love you, and need you too much. Even if I can never be the man you deserve. We may have to wait a while for the wedding and, erm, for other things, but..." he stopped when Molly leaned over and kissed him soundly.

She smiled a little then and said, "Sherlock, love, _please_ stop doing this to yourself! You _are_ the man I want - and deserve! We'll get through this, we will! I have told you before, and I mean it - there are no time limits on our getting everything back as it was before we were separated. It was very brave of you to tell me what you just did - it can't be easy to worry about that on top of everything else that is going on. I am not rushing you, love, I know that it isn't easy for you to even think about – I am just happy that you can be comfortable enough to sleep with me, and be more affectionate than you were before you left - it is a great step in itself. You've told me before that too much sensory input is disturbing to you- even if it is _good_ input. As for getting married, I think we both want a fairly small wedding, I don't see why it needs to be terribly far in future. It will give us both something happier to refocus on once we are through with our work sessions here and Edward's naming and memorial. Just one other thing, right now. I know it is fashionable, these days, to keep one's maiden name and hyphenate it; but I'd really like to do it the old-fashioned way, and become a Holmes, officially. Is that all right with you?"

Sherlock blinked at her rapidly, surprised by her declaration. "Of course, Molly, whatever you wish. I rather thought you would keep your name for professional reasons, but I'm more than happy to share mine with you, if you're sure you wish to share Mycroft's surname, as well," he finished with a slight smirk. "I know that Mummy and Dad will be thrilled to hear this news - whenever you want to make it known. You must know they already think of you as the daughter they never had." He made a mental note to ask for his Grand-mėre Vernet's emerald and opal ring, he already knew that it was Molly's size.

"Yes, love, and I adore them, as well. Now, my love, I hate to bring us back to more sombre tasks, but we do need to finish this memorial for Edward. I do want to make it something we can both remember with fondness, if not exactly happiness. How have you been faring with your searches?" she asked her new fiancé.

"Well, Molly, I have found a bit of a poem that I think is quite nice, and fitting - can you take a look and see what you think of it?" Sherlock enquired.

"Of course, love - let me see," Molly replied, waiting for Sherlock to turn the laptop so she could see. There was a fragment of a poem there:

Do not judge a song by its duration,  
Nor by the number of its notes.  
Judge it by the way it touches and lifts the soul.  
Sometimes those unfinished are among the most beautiful…  
And when something has enriched your life-  
And when its melody lingers on in your heart,  
Is it unfinished?  
Or is it endless?

"Oh, Sherlock, that is just absolutely perfect! I like it very much, and I can see why it spoke to you. We've made some good progress on this so far," Molly told him when she had finished reading.

"Have you found anything that you especially liked?" Sherlock asked, hoping that she had. He felt uncomfortable doing any of this, but knew when it was ready, the ceremony would help them to move forward. They'd certainly never forget this child, but they did have lives to lead, and maybe this would help them to do that again.

"Yes, I have. Listen to this..." and she read him a passage that made him choke up, not that he wanted her to notice. It was very fitting to the situation, he had to admit. They sat like that for another two and a half hours, each finding bits and reading them to the other. Some they rejected, some they put aside for further introspection, and some they both decided would be right for the ceremony. All in all, they spent a fruitful afternoon and early evening at the task, only stopping when Violet called them down for dinner. Sherlock didn't know if he could get anything past the large lump in his throat, but he took Molly's hand and helped her up and went down the stairs.

Downstairs, the remaining members of the household were all gathered around the table. Sherlock held Molly's chair until she was seated and then took his place beside her. Feeling everyone's eyes on them, Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, "Yes, we've spent the time in choosing some readings for the memorial. No, we aren't finished yet, and yes, we are fine."

Mummy tutted, patted his hand, and said, "Now, Sherlock, dear, we all only wanted to be sure you two are doing all right. I'm sure it has been a trying afternoon, but please don't be so prickly to the rest of us, love."

"Sorry, Mummy, you're right, of course," replied a chastened Sherlock. Molly almost chuckled at his rapid capitulation, despite her gloomy mood. Both the Holmes sons were soon reduced to five-year-old boys, when confronted with their mother's formidable personality. The older woman noticed this and shot Molly a quick grin. Sherlock tried for a scowl, but was unsuccessful, and he raised an eyebrow at Molly and gave her a very small smirk. The general mood at the table lightened considerably at this.

Mary asked, "So, it has been going well, then? Are you both feeling all right, physically, I mean?"

"Yes, Mary, we are doing fine, a bit weepy, at least I am, but all in all, we're pretty well. I've noticed Sherlock rubbing at his neck, but I think that is just trying to relieve the general tension - is that right, love?" answered Molly, glancing over at Sherlock, who stopped in mid-rub when he realised everyone was watching him.

"Erm, yes, just a bit of tension in my neck, nothing to worry about," Sherlock answered the room in general.

"Before you go back to your room for the night, I'll have a look at it, just to be sure you haven't pulled a muscle," John stated, brooking no resistance from his best friend. Sherlock knew when John used that tone, he wouldn't take no for an answer, and Sherlock might as well go along with his doctor's wishes. He resigned himself to a thorough once-over at bedtime.

They all had dinner then. Sherlock actually ate a small portion - something that was rare even when he was feeling his best. His mother knew all of his favourite foods, and tempted him with these frequently while they were visiting. He was sometimes like a toddler - give him some simple foods and he was happier and more likely to actually consume a little of it. Molly and John were especially glad for that, as they didn't want him to be running on caffeine while processing all of this. When the rest of the group walked to the drawing-room after pudding, Molly helped Violet to scrape the dishes and placed them in the dishwasher for her.

Violet took both of Molly's hands in hers and said warmly, "Molly, dear, I hope you know how happy we all are that you and Sherlock are together. He has been at odds with most of the world ever since he was born. You are so good for him - it really shows. I have never known him to be more - content - in his entire life, than he has been with you. I know he thinks he is hiding his feelings, but I've understood for years that he has been so very lonely, and wanted to be loved, just as anyone does. He's found that with you. Dealing with things this intense - both his capture and the events that you suffered, are completely outside his ability to cope. Please don't give up on him if he gets even more prickly – he needs you now more than ever."

"He'll not scare me off that easily, Violet - I've known him too long. I can see him through all that bluster, and I know how he really feels. I count myself extremely lucky to see the real Sherlock that he so often hides from the world. Even with all his quirks, he is very precious to me. We've been through hell, both of us, in our separate and shared ways, and we deserve the good things that life has to offer. We'll get through this next bit and see if we can find some of the good. I'll be with him every step of the way through all this, no matter how difficult we find it," Molly answered quietly, wishing she could share the news of their engagement. Then she and Violet shared a warm hug and walked on into the drawing-room to see what show the rest of the group had decided to watch this evening.

 **A/N- The fragment of the poem quoted is by an unknown writer. As usual, no beta, and all mistakes are mine. I own nothing but my Puggle, Sam, and I really think he owns me...**

 **~joan**


	15. Chapter 15

Too Deep For Tears- Chapter 15

When Violet and Molly got to the drawing-room, the assembled group were just deciding on which film to watch. When a Bond film was chosen, Sherlock sighed and made a face, but fooled no one. Molly sat beside him on one of the settees and they snuggled together under a knitted throw. Molly was glad that Sherlock was more comfortable being this affectionate with other people around, even if they were his family and close friends. She scooted closer to his side and was rewarded by Sherlock placing an arm around her waist. He shifted after a few minutes and lay with his head in her lap, and she stroked through his curls gently, but he still rubbed at his neck every few minutes. Well, John would check him out before they all retired for the night.

When the film was over, everyone picked up their mugs or glasses and headed for the kitchen. Sherlock started to rise, but John told him to sit, so he obeyed. John did a quick, but thorough, check and decided that his friend just needed a good massage to ease the gathered tension in his neck. Molly said she would do that once they were upstairs. Violet heard them and told her there was some almond oil in the en-suite cupboard. With an added word to call him if they needed him for anything, John nodded, and dismissed them. Molly always thought it amusing, the way that John so effortlessly got Sherlock to comply with his instructions. She guessed it was his military experience, but Sherlock seldom complained when John gave him what she thought of as a 'direct order.' The couple went upstairs to get ready for bed.

When they reached their rooms, Sherlock as usual walked to his bedroom to shower, change, clean his teeth, and brush his hair. Molly searched the cupboard under her sink and found the almond oil. She smiled; this was a mild enough scent that it should not bother Sherlock. She also showered,cleaned her teeth and brushed out her hair, braiding it loosely for the night. She then put on her simplest cotton pyjamas, and rolled up the sleeves. She turned on the iPod and set it in the dock, and soon soft classical music was drifting through the room. It played one of her favourite albums, Telemann's violin pieces. Since knowing Sherlock, her knowledge of classical, and especially violin, music had grown considerably.

Sherlock walked into the room, in his pyjama bottoms and an inside-out tee shirt, carrying his pyjama top on his arm. He looked tired, but still vaguely stressed. After giving him a kiss, Molly directed him to lie down on the bed on his stomach, and he complied. She climbed onto the bed and sat straddling Sherlock's hips, ignoring his sharp intake of breath when she sat on his bum. She pushed up his shirt, and saw Sherlock's scarred back before her. Since he had shown her the scars he carried, he had been very quiet about them, and always tried to be covered when Molly was around. He had never initiated more than a kiss and a cuddle, and despite his conversation earlier, Molly wondered if she should talk to Mary or John about that. While she didn't want to push him into more intimate contact if he needed time, she worried that Sherlock might be waiting for her to give him some sign that _she_ was ready for more. Molly shook her head a bit, then taking the oil from the night-stand; poured a small amount into her palm.

With the first stroke of her hand, from his nape to his shoulder, she could feel the tight muscles. She repeated the motion, and heard a small sigh from Sherlock, so she knew she was reaching the affected area. Molly continued rubbing his neck and back for about twenty minutes, noticing the skin seemed to be much softer when she had applied the oil. When she realised that Sherlock had nearly fallen asleep, lulled by the relaxation of his neck muscles and by the soothing massage, she ceased her ministrations. Molly had not had much chance to use the massage skills she learned in a course she took in uni, but she was glad for it now. She carefully climbed off the bed, pulled down the tee shirt and helped Sherlock into his pyjama top, and watched as he turned onto his side. After a trip to the loo, she turned off the music, and scooted in and lay on her side behind Sherlock, holding him round the waist. His breathing did not change its rhythm, and Molly soon drifted off to her own dreams.

She found herself again, in her version of the mind palace. It was funny, how this memory device of Sherlock's had become a place where she, too, could store and revisit memories. She walked around with no special destination in mind, finding herself in a small garden. There she planted several flowers that she loved for their bright colours and scent, and saw them growing and blooming while she observed. There was a trellis on one side near a wall- she'd have to see if Mr. Holmes had any wisteria. She went back inside and continued her wanderings.

For his part, Sherlock was also walking in the corridors of his mind palace yet again. He searched and found many childhood memories and items he had tucked away with them. He opened the door to Redbeard's chamber, and was rewarded with the Irish Setter's exuberant greeting. When the dog paused at the threshold, Sherlock nodded, and he came bounding out, following at his master's heels. He was always cheered by some playtime with Redbeard, and was not surprised to find a tennis ball in his pocket. They turned into a huge open room, and Sherlock threw the ball for the setter, who happily retrieved it several times. Deciding it was enough for now, Sherlock produced a treat from his pocket and tossed it back into Redbeard's room, closing the door after the dog entered. He turned a corner and continued walking.

Molly next entered a room she immediately knew was the nursery, although it was now changed. She sat down in the rocker there and paged through the journal, looking at all the entries and mementoes. She noticed very little other than the book, and got up after re-reading a few of the entries, resolving to make Edward's memorial a beautiful one. She went back into the hallway and thought she saw the tip of Toby's tail disappearing around a corner. Curious, she followed...

He next entered a room that was definitely Molly's. It was a bright, cheery yellow with a print of flowers and birds on the curtains. There were several plants on a shelf under a lighted panel, and a dish of paper-white narcissus were just starting to bloom. Sherlock once again marvelled at just how much space she was taking in his mind palace, and considered how he once thought he would be alone for the rest of his life. A single bed was placed in a corner, with a pale blue duvet, but it looked like it had been unoccupied for some time. A night-stand with her reading glasses, a book, and a small lamp stood at the side of the bed, and a braided rug in bright shades completed the décor. Toby was sleeping in a rocker placed across the room, near the window, where he could catch the sunbeams. There was also a sewing machine in the closet - that was new, as well. Molly must be out walking somewhere, Sherlock supposed, and partially closed the door again, being sure to leave space for Toby to get out and wander if he wished. Dratted cat, he thought with an internal smirk, knowing he loved the feline, who also seemed to have an affinity for the detective...

Sherlock was back in the main corridor again. He went into the next chamber on the right and saw it was Edward's room. It was the first time he had been in there since they had learned more about their son and named him. He now saw some of the items they were given, as well as the photos. The cot had been removed, but the walls were all painted a light sky blue, and there were shelves to hold the keepsakes. Sherlock noted the blue knitted cap, and the baby blanket that Anthea gave to them. There was a small light blue and beige sampler on one wall, with Edward's name and birth information - Sherlock thought that his mother must have stitched this for them, and knew that Molly would treasure it, as did he. He saw his journal, now filled with Edward's birth statistics, lock of hair, and the like. For the first time, he sat down in the rocking chair placed there, and paged through the journal again, noting all the family tree entries as well as the baby things. He saw there was space for them to enter the poems, readings, and whatever else they chose for his memorial, and vowed that it would be a fitting one. There were more tears, but he felt oddly better for knowing more about Edward now. After he read through the journal, he rose, placing it on the shelf, and left the room, feeling more peaceful inside than he had felt for months.

He walked on, searching for Molly, eventually finding her when his sleep lightened and he realized he was once more in her arms in their room. He turned and cradled her gently, tucking her head under his chin, (not wanting to disturb her apparently peaceful sleep) and dozed off again until morning. This night there were no bad dreams disturbing either of them, and they drifted along, each in their separate slumbers. Molly woke first, and smiled when she realised Sherlock's lanky limbs were splayed all over the bed - and her. She reached up and ran her hand through his curls, and was reminded again how much their son had resembled his father. She rose and went into the loo, then put on her dressing-gown and went downstairs, leaving Sherlock to sleep in for a bit.


	16. Chapter 16

Too Deep For Tears- Chapter 16

(two weeks later, at the Holmes' country house)

Sherlock dressed in his black suit, with a crisp white shirt beneath it. He had shined his black Italian leather shoes, and put them on after donning black socks. He went back into the loo and spent some minutes fussing with his curls, making them behave with some difficulty. The result would just have to do, he supposed, sighing, and went over to Molly's room, violin case in hand.

Molly was in her room, having finished in the loo, and was in the process of trying to zip a conservative deep blue dress with long sleeves. She turned when Sherlock approached, and he did up the zip without further prompting. She then slid her feet into navy flats, not wanting to risk heels on the uneven ground outside.

They had both breakfasted earlier, then coming upstairs to dress. When they returned to the ground floor, the others were waiting, except for Mycroft, who was on a phone call to some diplomat or other. He joined them a few minutes later. Everyone put on a winter coat, as it was quite cool. They each gathered up some papers and then the group went out and followed the garden path to where it diverged to lead them to the family's small, well-manicured cemetery. The weather was holding, and was forecast to remain clear for the duration of the day. There were a few chairs set up for the members of the group to sit on until they were needed to take their part in the ceremony. The little group was augmented by Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Philip Anderson, Angelo Rossi, and of course, Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hooper's arthritis was much improved, and Mycroft had her brought out to the house two days before.

There was a new gravestone at the site, but it was covered for now by a white sheet. Sherlock and Molly had approved the engraving, but had not seen the finished product. There was a wreath of baby roses and other flowers resting at the base of the stone.

When everyone was gathered, Mycroft stepped up to the front, where a small podium was placed. He began:

"Today we are here to mourn the death of Molly and Sherlock's baby son. His life was short, but he has left a void in all of our lives and hearts. He can never be replaced by anyone else. His parents had pictured their child in their minds, hopes, and dreams. This was not 'just' a baby, but a whole future that was lost. Some of you here today have expressed a desire to share readings or music to remember him.

"First, we will share his name. Molly and Sherlock have chosen it with great care and with love.

His name is Edward Prescott Holmes. Edward for Molly's father and Prescott for our father's brother, for whom Sherlock was also named. When we remember him, we can use his name - it is his very own and can never belong to another.

"Washington Irving said, 'There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief... and unspeakable love.' Now, I believe Anthea has some remarks and readings," and Mycroft returned to his seat.

Anthea stood next. "I have some readings that I thought were fitting for today. It is all right not to know what to say in times like these. A heartfelt, 'I'm sorry' is enough if you don't know anything else. You won't make Sherlock and Molly feel bad if you talk about Edward - they already mourn him and feel bad, and they will need to be able to talk about him as they remember him. Please give them the opportunity to do so.

"Charlotte Brontë wrote- 'There is, I am convinced, no picture that conveys in all its dreadfulness, a vision of sorrow, despairing, remediless, supreme. If I could paint such a picture, the canvas would show only a woman looking down at her empty arms.'

" Another person, unknown, wrote:

Do not judge the bereaved parents.

They come in many forms.

They are breathing, but they are dying.

They may look young, but inside they have become ancient.

They smile, but their hearts sob.

They walk, they talk, they work. They ARE, but they ARE NOT, all at once.

They are here, but part of them is elsewhere for eternity.

" John DeFain wrote: The death of a baby is like a stone cast into the stillness of a quiet pool; the concentric ripples of despair sweep out in all directions, affecting many, many people." Anthea left the podium and sat.

Next was Sherlock, with his violin. He looked like he was trying hard to appear normal, but his eyes were reddened and a mauve flush suffused his cheekbones. He briefly looked at Molly, then closed his eyes and began playing. The song was a soft, sweet tune that everyone recognised as a lullaby. The old cliché that 'you could hear a pin drop' was achingly true, as if no one dared even breathe while he was playing. Then the piece came to a gentle ending, and Sherlock turned and sat down beside Molly, who took his hand as soon as he had replaced the violin in its case.

Next came Molly. As she stood, she looked so fragile that Sherlock almost wanted to try and stop her from speaking, but he knew she wanted to do this, so he refrained. She stood at the podium, small and yet so strong as she read.

" Our dear little Edward, some may say you're too painful to remember. I say you're much too precious to forget. As long as we live, you will live. As long as we live, you will be remembered. As long as we live, you will be loved. Each new life, no matter how fragile or how brief, forever changes the world. There is no foot so small that it cannot leave an imprint on this world.

"As Shakespeare said, ' When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine, That all the world will be in love with night, And pay no worship to the garish sun.'

"And finally - Now I lay you down to sleep,

I pray the Lord your soul to keep;

Within his arms he'll hold you tight,

My little angel, my guiding light."

As she finished, Molly finally gave in to the sobbing she had been holding back somehow. As she reached Sherlock, he stood and gathered her in his arms, and helped her to sit, keeping his arm around her tightly.

Violet was the next to stand at the small podium. As ever, even though her heart was breaking for her own loss as well as for Sherlock and Molly, she would be there for her family. She cleared her throat and started reading.

" Sherlock and Molly: I am so, so sorry you are here in this place today. I know that this was never plan A, B, C, or even Z. I know your hearts are broken. I wish I could take away the pain and place Edward back in your arms.

"On the days when it's all you can do just to function, that's okay. On the days when you try your hardest to pull yourselves together, and somehow things just don't work out, give yourselves grace. Give yourselves room to breathe. On the days when no one but you mentions his name, I am so, so sorry. Say his name bravely. Know that he is still real, he was still here, and he is still yours. On the days when you feel like you could burst from anger and pain, go somewhere alone, cry it out, curse at the sky - there is nothing worse than having to fake it. Just don't. Please, let yourselves feel it. You've been through too much to put on a face, and healing doesn't come when we are living under a façade.

"On the days when the world tells you to 'heal' and 'move on' - Friends, healing from a child's loss doesn't look like healing from an injury. Edward was not a broken bone, he was a piece of our hearts, and now a piece of our hearts is gone.

"You have been irrevocably changed, in the sweetest, all-in, never-stopping way. Your love is strong. That's the promise you made when you swore to love Edward for the rest of time, no matter the cost to your hearts. Nothing on earth has shown me unconditional love more than the love in the heart of a grieving one. I know the power of it. It's stronger than any amount of pain, than a sea of tears, than even the grasp of death.

" I know, because of that love, you would brave every ounce of pain one thousand times over just for him. Know that where there is great pain, there is even greater love. You _will_ heal, just not in the way the world wants you to. You _will_ breathe easier. You _will_ maybe ache a little less - but as someone much, much further down the road than you are now, I can tell you that the longing will never, ever, ever leave. That's the beauty and the fierceness and the strength of your love." As she finished reading, Violet went back to where Siger was waiting, enveloping her in a hug.

John was the next speaker. He strode up to the podium as if on parade, a posture reserved for times when he felt under stress. He stopped, turned precisely, and began.

"I'd like to read a poem chosen by Sherlock for today; it is by an author who is unknown.

Do not judge a song by its duration

Nor by the number of its notes

Judge it by the richness of its contents

Sometimes those unfinished are among the most poignant...

Do not judge a song by its duration

Nor by the number of its notes

Judge it by the way it touches and lifts the soul

Sometimes those unfinished are among the most beautiful...

And when something has enriched your life

And when its melody lingers on, in your heart -

Is it unfinished?

Or is it endless?"

When John had completed the poem, he nodded, and turned sharply again, walking back to sit beside Mary. When he did, she grabbed his hand, holding it tightly in hers.

Finally, Mary walked to the podium. "I'd like to read one more poem, by J.R.R. Tolkein. It is called Journey's End.

"In western lands beneath the Sun

The flowers may rise in Spring,

The trees may bud, the waters run,

The merry finches sing.

Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night,

And swaying branches bear

The Elven-stars as jewels white

Amid their branching hair.

Though here at journey's end I lie

In darkness buried deep,

Beyond all towers strong and high,

Beyond all mountains steep,

Above all shadows rides the Sun

And Stars forever dwell:

I will not say the Day is done,

Nor bid the Stars farewell."

After he had returned to sit beside Molly, Anthea stood a final time. "There is one more short piece I think is right for this day, from _Hamlet:_ Good-night, sweet prince; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

"I'd like to thank you all for coming to be here with us today. Sorrow shared is sorrow divided, or so someone said. Thank you all for sharing in our sorrow and helping us to have the desire to go on.

Please join us for some refreshments back at the house," she said, and returned to Mycroft's side.

The final part of the service was revealing the gravestone. It read :

Sometimes love is for a lifetime,

Sometimes for a moment.

Sometimes a moment is a lifetime.

Edward Prescott Holmes

4 February 2013

The small group walked back to the house, with many tears and hugs. Sherlock and Molly stood looking at the stone for a few minutes, realising a part of their hearts was buried there.

 **A/N The various readings are credited as shown. Violet's part of the service was taken from several readings I found online, but none of them were credited with an author - if you know who wrote this, please let me know and I will amend this note. Thanks to all who have stayed with me and left comments or kudos.**

 **~joan**


	17. Chapter 17

The following day, Mycroft and Anthea went back to London. Anthea made certain that Molly and Sherlock each had her contact numbers in their mobiles, and promised to phone the next day.

John and Mary were staying on for now, as were Mummy and Dad. Molly's mum went back home via one of Mycroft's black cars.

The days of regular sessions to address their various concerns were completed, but now there would come time to reflect, to adjust more to their new reality, to heal. Mary and Molly decided to make a small quilt each – it would give them a chance to have casual conversations. Mummy was an experienced quilter, so she was teaching the younger women. They all three went into the nearest village with a fabric shop, and picked out coordinating prints and solids, batting, thread, quilting pins and needles and thimbles, and other minutiae that they would need to cut and assemble the quilts.

Sherlock and John spent some time with Mr. Holmes planning for the summer garden. The bulbs for spring were already in the ground. These were among Sherlock's favourite flowers - from the first snowdrops and crocuses to the later hyacinths, tulips and daffodils. He was always glad to see those first blooms pushing through after a long winter, and enjoyed their bright colours, whether it was in his parents' gardens or in Regent's Park, near to Baker Street. His parents also had planted some Lenten roses, or hellebore, and he enjoyed their odd colouration - some were green, some were of a more 'normal' purplish hue, and some were jet black. After making some sketches for reference, Sherlock headed back to the house, followed by John and his father.

Seeing that the ladies were still out, Sherlock and John went into the drawing-room to watch some telly. John noticed Sherlock was more fidgety than he had been earlier. He had washed his hands thoroughly about five times when they came back in from the garden, and was currently sitting with his knees drawn up and his hands clasped around his knees.

John watched him for a while, and then asked, "So, Sherlock, how are you sleeping lately - any more bad dreams? If there is anything you want to talk about, just with me, I'm here."

"Yes, I know, John - thank you. The nightmares and disturbing dreams are less frequent, but still happen. I rather imagine they will always be with me at some times. The headaches are also a bit less frequent and not usually long-term. Having Edward's memorial was a bit unnerving, but I am glad we decided to have it. It was a way of truly acknowledging his existence and giving him a place in the family. I felt - better - about it, and I know Molly does.

"There _is_ something I'd like to ask you, if you have some time...? I – erm – have not been able to be – intimate - with Molly since all this business, and I don't really know how to try. I just feel so overwhelmed by all the sensory - input – and I don't seem able to move past a certain point. I am fine with being close to her, with hugs, hand-holding, and kissing. But when it comes to anything further, I just can't... do you think any of my medications may be making that more difficult?"

John listened carefully to what Sherlock said, trying to see between the lines to what he hadn't yet been able to say. "So, then, you and Molly haven't – err – had sex yet - not since she has been awake again? I was wondering how things were going along in that department, but wanted you to come to me. I'd say first of all, that it really hasn't been all that long a time period, given what you have both been through. Have you tried just being around her more in general - like in the bathroom in the morning, getting ready for the day, things like that?"

"Not really - I always go to my old room to get ready in the morning and any other time I need to change clothes, shower, shave. I know Molly has seen all of my scars, but I don't feel good about her seeing the scarring on a daily basis. I feel it only reminds her of how broken I am." Sherlock stopped speaking and looked down, drumming his fingers on the side table. He was fidgeting again, rubbing his thigh and then his neck.

"Sherlock, surely you know that she doesn't think of you that way? I don't believe for one minute that Molly thinks that about you... have you tried just talking to her about this subject? Hmm?"

"Not as such, no. Just thinking about trying to actually say it makes me anxious. Oh, god! I feel so inadequate..." Sherlock trailed off, pulling at his hair as he did so. He began stimming more as he tried to find the words to continue, his hands and feet tapping away.

"Sherlock, don't go getting yourself even more upset. I think that you should try being physically closer. I know you liked to have long soaks in the tub - and there is only a shower in the room you have been using to change and bathe in - how about something like doing that? Having a soak and maybe having Molly come in and talk with you, maybe wash your hair or your back? I promise you, she absolutely does not mind the scars, except that she hates that you had to endure getting them. Oh! She gave you a massage the other night when your neck was bothering you - how did that go? Maybe that would be good, to have her give you a massage. Any of these things sound like something you'd be willing to try, hmm?" John asked.

Sherlock thought for a moment, blushed, and said softly, "The massage was – nice, and helped my neck, but I was very uncomfortable at first, when she sat on my - backside – but she just kept rubbing my neck and upper back, nothing more, so I was able to relax. I nearly fell asleep; I think she saw that, and stopped so she could help me to put my pyjama top on and get comfortable in the bed. I suppose that something like you suggest with the bath or massage might be all right. As long as I don't have to..."

"Sherlock, I think if you just talk with Molly, she is likely quite aware of what you are experiencing, and will agree to help you two get more comfortable with each other again. Don't you think she'd be more than willing to help you both?"

"I know that she probably would, I just need to ask her. It's silly, but I don't want to see the look in her eyes when I have to admit that I am just so stressed about this," Sherlock finally admitted what he didn't want to do, and why.

John sat beside Sherlock on the settee and patted his friend on the shoulder. "If you're having trouble thinking about saying this while you are looking directly at her, why don't you start the discussion when you are in bed, maybe even facing away and letting her hold you-?"

"That sounds much better. I think I can do it that way, and we can talk," Sherlock answered, relieved.

John continued talking,"Now, all that being said – do you think you two need to get away from here for a little while, or to have the whole place to yourselves here? It might make things a bit less tense, to not worry about anyone else being around. I'm sure Mary and I, and your parents, could arrange to go to the flat in London, and your parents to Kensington, if that would help? I've been thinking for a little that you could probably do with some time just to yourselves anyway, now that the sessions and memorial are complete. What do you think?

"But before we start talking about this with Molly, Sherlock, I have to ask you something that I know she has considered and maybe you need to let her know about this, too. Sherlock, there was nothing in your medical files, but I need to know... was there anything else that – err- happened to you when you were being held in Serbia? Did anyone - '

"No, god, no, John! I did ask, as soon as I was able to ask Mycroft, because I really didn't have memories of a lot of the time I was there. I needed to know, but Mycroft said there was absolutely no indication of any of – _that_. I was, and am, grateful that I was spared that final indignity, I'm not sure I'd ever be able to even imagine a life with Molly afterwards. She deserves better..."


	18. Chapter 18

The following morning, Anthea and Mycroft went back to London. Anthea reminded Molly and Sherlock to call if they needed anything at all, and got into the black car with her boss. Violet called them into the kitchen, sat them down for breakfast, and said, "Sherlock, your father and I will be returning to Gloucestershire tomorrow. I've been cooking ahead, so you will have some soups and stews frozen, and won't have to cook every day. We are there if you need us, but we think it's probably best for you two to to be on your own for a while. Stay as long as you like, of course. We'll phone every few days, or you can call us if you need anything, dear." She ruffled his curls and kissed the top of his head.

Mary walked into the kitchen and asked Molly to go on a walk with her. They headed out to the gardens, and after about 30 minutes, sat on a bench near the koi pond. It was a clear day, if cold, and the early winter sunshine was welcome on their faces. Mary turned so she was sitting facing Molly and asked, "So, Molly, how are you and Sherlock getting on with all of this? Anything we can do to help you, at all? I know you'll need some time to yourselves, but I just thought I'd ask."

Molly thought about it, and finally answered her. "Mary, Sherlock and I haven't been intimate yet. I mean, he is fine with cuddling and kissing, and with sleeping in the same bed – but that is it. He has never said or indicated that he wants more. I think that he just needs more time, which I can understand after all he went through, but I - erm – sometimes wonder if he is waiting for _me_ to give him some sign that I am ready for anything further – what do you think?"

"Oh, Molly, John and I have been wondering how you two were doing in that department, but didn't want to rock the boat. Has he said anything at all?" Mary inquired.

"No, not really. He did tell me a while ago that he couldn't even begin to think about it right then, so I let it drop. You know Sherlock - he gets so overwhelmed with too much sensory stimulation, even pleasant things sometimes. The last couple of months has been nothing but overwhelming sensory input. I don't want to push him when he has been doing better in most every other area, but I also think he is afraid. I _did_ talk with Mycroft the other day and asked him if there were anything else I needed to know about how he was treated while he was held captive. If the worst had happened, I seriously don't know if he'd ever get over it; he's so convinced that he is bad for me and doesn't deserve to be happy. He is very – private, I guess you could say, about anything to do with sex, almost shy. I just don't know what to do!"

Mary, seeing her friend distressed, said, "So - Mycroft said that nothing else happened? No - sexual assault?"

"No, but Mycroft was glad I asked, and said that they had examined him very carefully when he was first brought back to make sure he was all right. I am relieved to know that, so relieved. I truly don't know if he could rebound from that – it'd be the final indignity."

"Well, as you say, it is good to know. Now you just have to try to get him to relax more. I realise as I said this, we are talking about Sherlock here, and it won't be easy." Mary responded. "John and I are going back to London tomorrow when Mr. and Mrs. Holmes leave - we're going to stay in 221B while we look for a house with Mycroft. Maybe you just need some time alone, so that there are no worries about getting interrupted - ?"

"I'm sure that will help. That way I can talk to him without him being quite so anxious. I know he doesn't often admit it, but he _is_ human. This way we can talk about everything, without worrying where we are, or who might come in," Molly said. "As I said, I'm in no rush if he needs time, I just want him to be able to talk to me about this – do you think he's said anything to John?"

"I don't think so, but if he talked to him in confidence, John wouldn't say anything to me," Mary answered. "Maybe before we leave, they will have a chance to talk."

Meanwhile, Sherlock and his mother were still sat in the kitchen having more tea and biscuits. Sherlock cleared his throat and asked, "Mummy, may I have Grand-mère Vernet's emerald and opal ring? I'd like to give it to Molly. I proposed to her a short while ago, when we were working on Edward's memorial, and she said, 'Yes.' I think if we took it to a jeweller's in London, they could make a matching wedding band..."

Violet interrupted him, saying, "Oh, Sherlock, how wonderful! You must know that your father and I love her as a daughter already. She is a fine young woman, and I know you will be very happy. Oh, sweetheart, I am just so glad for you!" She wiped away a few tears of joy as she spoke. "But you won't have to go to any jeweller - there is a matching band, and also your Grand-père Vernet's wedding band which can be sized for you."

"Really? I didn't know of the bands – that will be very nice, and even though I don't hold much with 'luck,' it surely can't be a bad thing that your parents were happily married for 65 years. I know that will be important to Molly. Thank you, Mummy." Sherlock hugged his mother, who was understandably touched by the rare gesture from him.

Violet thought back to Sherlock as a toddler, with uncontrollable outbursts and behaviours no one understood for so long. If she had looked ahead, she could never have pictured this outcome for her youngest. Whatever was responsible - fate, luck, divine guidance - she was by turns astonished and thankful. There couldn't possibly be another woman like Molly Hooper to be his wife and partner in life – she loved Sherlock absolutely, and also understood his quirks and loved him _for_ them, not in spite of them. She knew it might take a while, but she dearly hoped they would be blessed with another child one day. The loss had devastated all of them.

John walked into the kitchen just then to get a cup of tea. Violet left the two men together, sensing they might want a chance to chat before John and Mary left tomorrow. John fixed his cuppa and sat down across the table from Sherlock.

"So, then, how are you feeling? Everything all right? Just asking because as you know, Mary and I also leave tomorrow. We'll be reachable, of course, but if there is anything I can do before we go...?"

"John – erm – I – Molly and I haven't – well, we haven't, not at all. Do you think there is something more wrong with me? Is it my medication?" Sherlock finally got out, turning a deep crimson as he dropped his gaze to the floor.

"Sherlock, I can understand why you'd ask, but, honestly, with all the stress and trauma you've both been through; no, I don't think there is any cause for alarm. Your meds are at a low enough dose now that they shouldn't have any effect on your – erm - functioning. I really think you both just need for all of us to be gone, and to have the place to yourselves so that you can get to know each other again. Just take it one step at a time, even if they are baby steps. I know that too much sensory input can sometimes – derail you, and with just the two of you here, I think it will work itself out in a while. I'd just say to not worry about it and let things get more comfortable naturally between you, yeah?" John answered, studying his friend with a doctor's eye but a best friend's caring expression. "But you do know I am just a phone call away if you do have any concerns.?"

"Thank you, John. We haven't talked about this directly for some time now, but I just wanted to be aware if anything else was interfering... I think that we had pretty much decided to do just as you said, but I wanted to be sure."

The rest of that day was spent with their friends and family packing up and getting ready for the return to London. After a night spent in mostly restful sleep, Sherlock and Molly waved everyone off, locked the door, and sighed with relief.

 **A/N Thanks to all for staying with this story- if you have any comments or reviews, I'd love to hear them. Still don't own anything, so I am not on the French Riviera, darn it!**

 **~joan**


	19. Chapter 19

The next few days were lazy ones for Molly and Sherlock. They slept in, sometimes stayed in their night clothes, and generally just enjoyed the respite from daily therapy sessions and memorial planning. They knew it all had been helpful, but they now needed to be together and get more comfortable being a couple again, with no constant scheduling and other people around them. On most mornings, they continued their habit of walking through the gardens, some days stopping at Edward's gravestone to leave flowers or autumn branches. Molly could see Sherlock relaxing more with every day - he played the violin more, for one – both classical pieces he had learned years ago and his own compositions. He'd often stand by a window in the kitchen where he could look out into the back garden as he played. It reminded her of seeing him play in Baker Street, looking down onto the street below and the passers-by. He had also started working on a new piece – to Molly – which sounded lighter, more Celtic in feeling. She wondered if it was for any certain occasion, or just something that had been rattling around in his mind palace.

Sherlock also noted similar changes in Molly's behaviour. She spent time reading and crocheting, a skill she had learnt from Mummy, and fairly quickly had the beginnings of a lovely blanket in deep jewel-tones. The work seemed to relax her and he noticed she was less tense in her posture, and her expression was more natural. She was also much more like the Molly he had known before he left the last time, before her abduction.

He finally proposed to her properly and gave her his grandmother's ring. She loved it and the antique setting, as he predicted, and was charmed by the story of his grandparents' long, happy marriage. He also gave her a new rather heavy chain so that she could wear the ring around her neck when she was working, which Molly appreciated. He had to admit it gave him a sense of pride to see the ring on her finger – again, something he never thought would happen for him. They were both, as his brother would have said, 'incandescently happy' about the engagement.

They still had issues to work on, though. They spent a lot of time talking about what they had endured separately and together. Although it would always lurk in the back of their minds, the events of that year gradually occupied less of their present, little by little. Sherlock found it much easier to talk about the capture and even the torture when he was with Molly and no others. She found the same with recalling her capture and the birth.

The most difficult of all to speak about was, of course, Edward's loss. All else paled next to losing him before they ever had a chance to really know him. Molly and Sherlock vowed to each other that they would never turn away when one of them needed to talk, now or in the future. They read through the journal many times and admired the pictures and keepsakes, and spent more time with Edward Prescott Bear, getting a sense of what their child had been like, how much physical space he occupied, how he felt in their arms. These times also made a natural occasion for talking about him and the whole experience of his birth, and this they did often. They had read the statistics of the overwhelming number of bereaved parents whose relationship fell apart and resolved not to let it happen to them. They had been through too much to lose each other, too.

When he returned to London, Mycroft took Sherlock's score to his friend Adrian. His friend was very pleased with the music, and immediately asked about performing it with his small but well-respected orchestra. Mycroft relayed Sherlock's permission, and asked that Adrian go over the entire score to check for any spots that might be improved, and left him with the task of doing so. He thought Sherlock would be very pleased that initially, Adrian had seen no glaring areas which needed editing. He phoned his little brother that evening and told him everything that Adrian had said about the piece. Mycroft also asked about the Celtic piece that Sherlock was working on presently, and was happy to hear he had made significant progress on it, and should easily be finished in time for Molly's birthday in the spring.

Anthea came into the office while they were still talking, and asked to speak to both Sherlock and Molly for a few minutes. She inquired about their health, and also how they were faring discussing things on their own, and was pleased to hear they were talking every day about their experiences for a bit, and also getting on with their lives in other ways. She rang off after again offering her assistance if needed.

Molly and Sherlock had spent quite a few days in contemplation of all their experiences, and felt they needed a change, even if just for a few hours. They called the former gatekeeper's cottage, which now housed the housekeeper/cook and her husband, the chauffeur/handyman and arranged to go out to lunch the following day, and then to spend some time in the nearby village looking in the shops, and going to the library. It would be their first outing since they had arrived, Molly almost a year before, and Sherlock more than three months ago to stay. They went to sleep, anxious and slightly apprehensive for the next day.

The next morning, both Sherlock and Molly woke early and spent some extra time in getting ready for the day. Molly was conscious of the fact it was their first trip out since they became engaged, and was proud of the way her new engagement ring looked on her finger. Sherlock had showed her the wedding bands, and she thought they were equally lovely. She looked forward to beginning to plan the wedding, which, although small, would still be a much more pleasant celebration for this house to host.

After a quick breakfast of coffee and eggs and toast, they got into the car when Laurence brought it round the front of the house, and headed into town. Sherlock was driving for the first time in many months, but the way to the village was ingrained since childhood. Molly sat beside Sherlock, her hand tucked into his larger one, and felt hopeful for the future in a way she hadn't since Sherlock had left her flat the last time.

 **A/N Still own nothing, still not in Spain... thanks for staying with me, things are starting to look up for the couple. Please leave a review if you wish.**

 **~joan**


	20. Chapter 20

Too Deep For Tears- Chapter 20

The village was already decorated for the coming Christmas holidays. It looked very festive, with evergreen boughs and garlands everywhere, and a large spruce tree also decorated, complete with lights and ornaments. Molly wanted a photo of the two of them in front of the tree, so Sherlock asked a passing woman to take one for them. He usually didn't really get into much of a jolly mood for Christmas, but this year was different. Molly was awake again, and he was feeling better than he had for some time, despite the nagging chronic pain he still had in his pelvis and legs from the torture. It usually eased up with some rest and painkillers (the non-addictive kind), and today he was feeling well, with no residual aches at the moment. He was very lucky that his hands had healed well, with little residual pain. He hoped the increasing cold wouldn't bother his injuries too much.

The first shop Molly wanted to see carried all sorts of body lotions, shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, and the like. Sherlock went along - the smells wouldn't bother him when he didn't have a migraine. He liked that Molly usually wore some kind of light floral scent, and was curious to see what she chose. After checking with him that it was all right to ask him to also help choose the scent, Molly started down one aisle. There were so many aromas - however did someone make up their mind, he wondered.

After trying several scents, Molly decided she liked the honeysuckle one, and the peach/vanilla. Sherlock agreed heartily - they were both very pleasant and not at all annoying. Molly chose a few products in each fragrance and made her way to the back of the shop to pay. Sherlock indicated he was going on to the book-store next door, and she nodded. When Molly joined him a few minutes later, he took her bag and walked out and put it in the boot.

At the book-store, they separated and each browsed their favourite genres. Sherlock, of course, headed for science and forensic books, to see if any held hitherto-unknown secrets. To his delight, he found three that were brand-new and offered some specific studies in methods of crime solving.

He then went on, in search of a novel or two - he did read those, in spite of what John and others thought. These were far easier to get lost in, and he selected four within a few minutes.

Molly found a new fantasy series that she had read about online, and bought the first two books. She could easily return for more if she liked them. She also found a couple of murder mysteries by a favourite American author, and bought them both. She loved the series about a female detective in New York – it was almost like finding a favourite programme on the telly had been renewed for another series, unexpectedly. When she and Sherlock queued up to pay, she also got a couple of bookmarks, since hers were packed up with the rest of her flat, and in storage wherever Mycroft had stashed them.

It was about half twelve when they decided to head over to the local restaurant for lunch. It was a step above pub food, but not pretentious. They were shown to a table by a roaring fireplace, which they both appreciated as it was getting nippier by the minute, and they were quite chilled by the

short walk. Sherlock ordered a pasta dish and salad with coffee, while Molly had shepherd's pie and Darjeeling tea. They found the food to be very good, and resolved to return before too long. They decided to forego the pudding, as they had a bit more shopping to do.

Sherlock once again returned to place packages in the car boot, and rejoined Molly in the last shop she wanted to see. This one had candles of every description and scent. Again, she asked for his input, wanting to have them as a soothing presence and not an annoying one. They selected a lavender and vanilla blend, and a lemon one, the final one being sandalwood and vetiver, notes that were in Sherlock's customary cologne.

On the way back to the house, they spotted a market fair and stopped by for a few fresh winter vegetables. Molly also found a very nice assortment of cheeses, and added those and some savoury biscuits to the total. After buying these items, she and Sherlock headed for what was now their home, at least for the near future.

After putting away their purchases, Sherlock headed for the drawing-room to see what was on the telly. After channel-hopping a few times, he found a forensic documentary and spent the next hour shouting abuse at the methods used. Molly sat there giggling every time, seeing his obvious joy, in spite of his irritation. She honestly didn't know why he bothered with it, since he always knew better and faster ways to catch the criminals, but it seemed to amuse him.

After a light dinner of one of Violet's soups with fruit and cheese, they returned to the drawing-room to watch a film. Molly selected one of her favourite romantic comedies, something with Hugh Grant – Sherlock couldn't be bothered to know which was which, as they all seemed to run together into one big treacly mess, as far as he was concerned. He did know enough not to voice his opinion, however, and soon lay down with his head in Molly's lap, hoping she would run her fingers through his hair, and was soon rewarded with her doing just that. He soon fell asleep – erm - went into his mind palace - although Molly didn't fall for that any more. When he awoke, she was watching

Glee, another show that she adored but he couldn't really tolerate – but did, because it was Molly.

He yawned and stretched and then went out to the kitchen and filled the kettle and turned it on. When it switched off, he made two mugs of tea and took Molly's through to her, with a few biscuits on a plate for the two of them. She thanked him, as always – this domestic effort he made was becoming more natural, but she wanted him to know she appreciated his thoughtfulness. They ate the biscuits and the show ended. It was a bit early for bedtime. Sherlock went out to the kitchen and placed the dishes in the sink. When he returned to the drawing-room, Molly had retired. He followed soon after.


	21. Chapter 21

When Sherlock got to their room, he heard water – Molly must be running a bath. He walked to the doorway and knocked, waiting until she opened the door. Molly greeted him in her dressing-gown, smiling as she said, "Oh, good, you've come to bed - I was just running a bath for you – I know you must be achy after today, and there is only a shower stall in the room you had been using. Why don't you come have a soak and I can wash your hair and then maybe give you a massage after?"

Sherlock hesitated just a beat before he realised that he _was_ achy, and tired, and just didn't want to go on being so afraid of Molly looking at his scars any more. So he quietly undressed and sat in the large old-fashioned soaking tub. He leaned back against the end of the tub and closed his eyes. The warmth felt marvellous. Molly knelt down by the tub, holding a sponge. "Did you want me to bathe you?" she asked. "I just thought - you look so worn out suddenly..."

Blushing, he nodded and closed his eyes again. Molly soaped the sponge and began to carefully wash him, one section of his body at a time, like one might do with a young child. At first, he tensed, but after a few minutes, as he realised she wasn't staring at him with pity in her eyes, he was able to relax more completely. Molly asked him to sit up so she could wash his back, and he complied. By the time she took his shampoo and poured a bit out into her palm, he actually leaned into her hand in his hair, relishing the sensation. When she was through, Molly handed him a towel for his hair and when he had got most of the water out, handed him another for him to dry off with, and turned to get his dressing-gown so that he could exit the tub. He wrapped the towel around his hips and stepped over to the mirror to clean his teeth, noticing that she had brought his shaving kit into the now-shared loo. He cleaned his teeth and used the peppermint mouthwash he favoured whilst Molly sat again on the toilet lid and watched, occasionally chatting about their day in the village.

Sherlock had to admit, this did feel more comfortable than he thought it might. It was much the same as when he used to drop in and stay at her flat while he was working on demolishing Moriarty's web. He sighed again, feeling so much tension leaving him after such a long time, that he was suddenly even more fatigued as a result. The embarrassment about her viewing his body had largely vanished, leaving him surprisingly relieved. He fussed with his hair for a few minutes, putting in a moisturising treatment so the curls didn't get bushy and unruly. Molly watched him with a slight smile – he was not terribly depressed if he cared about his appearance, and she loved his curls. He did need a haircut soon, his hair was longer than she had ever seen it. Truthfully, she liked long hair on men, but she knew Sherlock would never have left it this long if his mind hadn't been so preoccupied. She made a mental note to suggest he cut it - she didn't know where he usually got it cut, but knowing the Holmes', he may have someone come to the house.

Finally, he walked into the bedroom and saw that Molly had laid his pyjamas out on the bed for him. He put them on without turning away from her and got into bed, turning onto his side so that he was facing her. His eyes were heavy as soon as his head hit the pillow, and Molly cuddled into him and patted his chest. Sherlock bent his head and kissed her, and that was the last he knew until the morning light came through the curtains.

When he woke up, Molly had already gone downstairs. Sherlock made a quick trip to the loo and then followed. Molly was sat at the table, reading, with a cup of tea at her elbow. When she saw him, she smiled and jumped up to greet him with a kiss, asking what he wanted for breakfast. Sherlock replied that an omelet would be nice, and Molly set about making one for the both of them, chopping up some bacon and cheese to add to the egg mixture. She also put some toast in the toaster so it would be finished by the time the eggs were cooked. Sherlock sat while she fixed him a mug of tea and started the crossword in the morning paper.

When the omelet was served, Sherlock ate about half of it. After all the indulging yesterday, it was as much as he could manage. At least he didn't have to pretend to like her cooking, he thought. He may not eat sometimes due to a case, but it wouldn't be because the food was lacking.

Molly finally spoke to him. "So, Sherlock, how did you feel after your bath? You seemed to relax in there - you looked much better, although knackered. I hope you're all right with the fact that I moved some of your things over, it seems only right that we should now share the en-suite. I'd planned to give you a massage as well, but you were nearly asleep by the time you finished your bath and shave. I can do that for you any time, if your legs are hurting, or if you just want a back-rub."

"Yes, Molly, it was very nice to have a good soak after so long. I didn't realise how much I had missed it until I sat in the tub and felt the warm water. I'm sorry I've been so – ridiculous about this. I do feel much better now that it's just the two of us here. I'm trying..." he trailed off and looked away.

"Oh, no, love, I wasn't trying to rush you into anything! I honestly just wanted you to have a nice warm soak. I know you always used to enjoy a good bath when you had a chance, before. You just looked like you were hurting," Molly said, moving over to place an arm around his waist. "What I said to you before still stands, Sherlock - there is no time limit, no pressure – and if we can only go so far, forever, then it will be fine. I am not giving up on us, even if we are a little unconventional - all right? It's nobody's business but ours what we share together. I love you, so very much, and that will never change."

Sherlock sat there, blushing a deep shade. "Molly, I really don't deserve you. You are the only person in my life, except Mycroft, who has never given up on me. I do still have hope that we can be – closer - one day soon, but when I start thinking about it, I get so anxious that I just freeze."

"Maybe you need to stop thinking so much – that big brain of yours gets in the way sometimes, doesn't it? Maybe just let yourself relax, and just _feel_ sometime," Molly said softly. "I'll still be here, either way – and you've proposed now, can't get rid of me too easily now, you know." She grinned at him and waggled her ring finger at him, and he nodded, arching a brow at her.

"Yeah, I've really boxed myself in there, haven't I?" he replied, sounding a bit lighter in mood.

"Since you are apparently here permanently, do you want to go for a walk?" He walked out to the closet and got their coats, and they headed out towards the koi pond.

The day was breezy but otherwise fair, and Molly and Sherlock walked in the gardens until they reached the koi pond. The bright fish were milling around as usual, and when they realised they had visitors, they came to the side nearest Molly and pushed and shoved at each other to get closer. She looked up at Sherlock, who smiled and held out his hand, filled with fish food, as usual. She knelt down to feed the greedy koi, giggling as they mouthed at her fingers.

"If you like that, wait until you try the large pond farther in the back of the place - we can swim there in the warm weather, and _those_ fish will nibble at your toes, but they are quite safe, they have no teeth to speak of and don't bite," Sherlock murmured in her ear as he sat on the bench beside where she was kneeling.

Molly grinned. "Oohh, that sounds a bit scary, but I'm game for it – if you say they won't hurt me, I trust you. That could be a great way to spend a warm day, maybe lying out on towels afterwards for a bit of sun. We could bring a picnic lunch – it sounds lovely, Sherlock! Now, I will think about this when we are having nasty winter weather, and look forward to it. Thank you, love," she said, turning and kissing him on the tip of his nose. She then put her arm around him and hugged him, saying, "You do know I'm never letting you go now, it's all a part of my clever plan."

"I had suspected as much – consulting detective, remember?" laughed Sherlock. "What if it is a part of _my_ clever plan to ensnare you more closely, eh?"

"Oh, you _are_ a devious man! Well, then we'll just have to stay very close together so we can each spy on the other, how about that?" said Molly, playfully, enjoying this lighter side of Sherlock. She hadn't seen this for far too long. He even looked better and brighter somehow – she hoped the mood would stay a while, he certainly deserved to feel light-hearted for a change.

"Hmmm – I think that could work out very well, yes," he answered in that low rumble that always set her heart aflutter, and bent to kiss her for a long moment. After that, they just stayed on the bench for a while, holding each other, and watching the fish twisting and turning in the sun-dappled water.

 **A/N= Well, still on the East Coast here- and yesterday it snowed- in April! Brrr. Please read and review. Thanks,**

 **~joan**


	22. Chapter 22

After a bit, Sherlock stood and held his hand out to Molly. "We'd better go, I don't want to start these legs hurting again. They're doing much better, but they still get sore after I exercise if I sit for too long. Maybe I'll have another bath, that helped so much last night."

"Of course, you looked so much more relaxed after that. While you have your soak, what do you want to eat for lunch? I'll start it," Molly replied.

"Oh, I won't be hungry for a while yet – why don't you come up and do my back again?" Sherlock asked softly, suddenly a bit shy.

Molly schooled herself not to react too much, and agreed, following him back to the house and up the stairs. While Sherlock was off in his other room gathering pyjamas, she went into the loo and started running his bath, making sure she included some of the bath salts he liked to relax in. By the time he came in, his bath was ready. This time he got into the tub without showing any nervousness at her presence, and she felt encouraged by that small victory. When she walked over and started to kneel at the side of the tub, Sherlock took her hand and said quietly, "Come in with me?"

"Are you sure you want company? I can see from that grin that you do - okay, just let me..." Molly smiled, stood, and removed her clothes, her heart pounding in her chest as she tried to look calm. She got into the tub, first sitting at the other end; but Sherlock soon took her hand and motioned for her to turn around and rest back against him. It felt so right to just relax with him that she was a bit overwhelmed and sniffed slightly, not wanting to cry.

As ever, he noticed, and held her more tightly against him. He said softly, "This is nice, yes? It feels so wonderful to be here with you again. It's been an age, I know."

Molly smiled, grasped his hand and said, "I know it will work itself out, you have done so well. This _is_ nice, I missed this so much when you were away."

"Me, too. There were so many times I wished I could be with you. Thinking of you got me through so many bad times, including the treatment I received at the hands of my captors. I just thought of you, and I could escape them for a while, at least mentally. I do love you, Molly - I know I haven't said it enough."

"You say it enough - I know you mean it, and it thrills me every time you say it because I know you don't say things like this lightly. It just feels so good to be here in your arms. Now, do you want me to wash your hair while we're here?" she asked, grinning.

"Not just yet - I'm enjoying just sitting here with you too much to even move right now," responded Sherlock, leaning back and closing his eyes and sighing. "It just feels too right to be here with you, and I'm not sure that I ever want to move again."

"Well, I agree it _is_ wonderful, but it will be getting rather cold eventually, and we have that nice fireplace in our bedroom..." said Molly with a saucy smile as she lay back against his chest.

They remained just that way until the water did begin to cool slightly, and then got out and toweled each other off, then putting on their dressing-gowns and going out into the bedroom after cleaning their teeth. The fireplace was laid with fresh wood, and Sherlock knelt to start the fire. Soon there was a pleasant glow as well as the warmth permeating the room. He and Molly sat on the couch for a while, just talking softly and kissing, holding each other as if the gap between the last time they felt so free and the present had never happened.

Molly looked at the time, and said, "Oh, my! It's nearly time for dinner, and we didn't have lunch! I'm not feeding you up very well, am I?"

Sherlock just grinned, "Oh, I think I prefer the time spent with you to food. I am getting peckish, though, now that you mention it. Why don't we go see what we can fix quickly and watch telly while we eat?" He took her hand and pulled her up, and they went downstairs to find something for dinner.

When they got down to the kitchen, they decided on a salad and soup for dinner. Molly had realised that if there was soup, Sherlock would choose it every time, and resolved to ask Violet if she would share her recipes. Whilst she was tossing the salad, he heated up some chicken soup with noodles that his mother had left for them, and made tea. They sat down in the kitchen, after all, to eat – but did turn on the telly in there to watch the news. When they were finished, they went into the drawing-room, their preferred room in the evening, to light the fire and watch a film. They soon lost all interest in the plot of the film, spending the time having an epic round of snogging. Seeing that Sherlock was happily reciprocating and not starting to stim from anxiety, Molly reached over and turned off the telly. She stood, taking Sherlock's hand and started towards the stairs.

When they got to their room, she told Sherlock to lie down as she added some wood to the steadily burning fire. Earlier, she had lit the lavender candle and the soothing aroma was filling the room. Sherlock took off his dressing-gown and lay down on their bed. Molly did the same, and lay down beside him, and began to kiss his face and down that long pale stretch of neck that she loved so much, and which was so sensitive. Sherlock's breath caught as he returned and deepened the kisses. She looked into those quicksilver eyes, their colour now only a tiny rim around the pupils. She continued her slow exploration of his body. She moved back to his face, and kissed him, long and deeply. Sherlock was soon letting his hands wander over Molly, rediscovering the sensations of touching her. Just feeling those fingers, with their calluses from the Stradivarius, move over her body again was enough to make her shiver. Seeing each other in the flicker of the flames lent an otherworldly feeling to the night as well. They spent quite a while learning one another's body and touch all over again.

After a few minutes, an hour, who knew? - Molly rolled over so that she was above Sherlock, and continued the kissing and touching, a part of her watching and weighing his comfort level. He was still responding to her touches, so she looked at him, saying simply, "Sherlock-?" He nodded and breathed, "Oh, god, yes", so she shifted a bit and carefully guided him into her. It had been nearly nearly two years, and both were a bit nervous. She heard him sigh deeply and close his eyes, savouring the feeling of being joined after so long a time apart. She sat up, also closing her eyes briefly, braced her hands on his chest, and rocked them both gently, trying to keep a steady pace. She was thrilled they were finally making love, but she knew neither of them would last for long. All too soon, Sherlock, swiftly followed by Molly, reached completion. She lay back down atop his chest, and stayed there as their breathing steadied. She carefully got up and went into the loo briefly, then returned with a flannel for Sherlock and gently cleaned him off. He was still lying there quietly, not saying a word. At first, she thought that maybe he was a bit embarrassed, but then she saw there were tears shining in his eyes.

Sherlock was just lying there in disbelief that what he had feared for so long was finally behind them, and they were both all right. Moreover, he hadn't experienced any difficulties, which he had worried about much more than he had ever let on to Molly. Finally, he seemed to realise he was not speaking or moving at all. He took her in his arms and hugged her tightly, saying. " Molly, I love you so much. Thank you for not giving up on me. I was so worried I might never..."

"Sssh, love, just shush. It's all right, everything has worked out, the biggest obstacle is behind us now – things can only get better between us. Are you sure that you feel all right? No pain or discomfort anywhere?" Molly said, looking at him very seriously for a moment, assessing him quickly with a physician's eye.

"Yes, love, I am more than fine. If I am a bit – erm – worse for wear tomorrow, it will be a small price, I assure you." Sherlock answered, smiling as he kissed her again, and turned on his side towards her. Putting an arm around her waist, he was asleep in minutes. She lay awake for a while longer, thankful at how smoothly it all went. Maybe things were starting to look up for them, at last. She was thinking about the coming Christmas holidays and that they'd have to return to the village to buy presents for their family and friends as she fell asleep, dreaming of snow and of Sherlock standing with his violin by the fire.

The End

 **A/N Thanks to all who have stuck it out with this story. Molly and Sherlock have been through a lot, but things are definitely on the turn for the better. There will be a follow-up to this, as soon as I finish writing it! Please read and review if you are inclined.**

 **I'd like to give special thanks to my beta, LilSherlockian1975, for help with this chapter, and for her unflagging friendship and encouragement.**

 **~joan**


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